When I was younger, I dreamed of giants,
overly ambitious thoughts, beliefs,
impetuous desires, falsehoods.
Now, none remain to crash through
the nubile trees of life, only
a slumbering mountain of aged bones.
There is no stench of their decay,
these giants, though their dried husks
have littered the path of the past.
Did I slaughter them, I the giant killer,
or did time become the immortal villain.
Cronus wielding a scythe of minutiae.
The small things unnoticed until they
culminate in a shower of tiny arrows
piercing the flesh reaching into the heart.
The trivia of being a fusillade,
pointed disappointments and failures,
missed chances opportunities.
Count not the past nor the future,
for they exist only in memory, count
the moment, the only truth, a brief reality.
©2018, Donald Harbour