Sonnet for Borrowed Time

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trust (1)

Like Autumn leaves, we live on borrowed time
before the parched and brownly breeze-dried branch
becomes a lifeless dusty paradigm,
when our molecules dissolve [avalanche].

Four times a taste of death has struck with force;
yet every watershed in which I swam —
despite the piercing nature of the course —
has shaped my world and made me who I am.

But whether this has been for good or ill
can only be determined by the wise.
Of clouds’ mendacity I’ve had my fill;
I long to leave this world with fond goodbyes.

One thing I know: Our lives hang by a strand,
and soon we’ll taste what lies beyond, first-hand.



© Alan Morrison, 2019

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