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Cartwheels in Ancient Fields
by Max BouilletWe are debris
floating in the waves of existence;
though the motion makes us sick,
it is this movement that defines life.
Once on shore, we die.
Roll, whirl, and watch
her spin cartwheels
through the meadows
and into the mouth
of time.
Holding hands,
the future dead
frolic and revel
in the time theyre given
until time stops
and memories
fall on butterflies
who inspire new generations
to flip through
these ancient fields
and recall kisses of youth.
In time, the eyes of the once young
lock on each other
and they fall
together into forever sleep.
(Souls woven together
forming the memories of earth.)
11/29/2005 Posted on 11/29/2005
Copyright © 2024 Max Bouillet
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Katerina T Nix on 12/02/05 at 01:38 AM beautiful poem of life and death.. mostly death. great imagery, thanks for a great read :) Kat. |
| Posted by Mara Meade on 12/02/05 at 11:50 PM A reminder, at least to me, that time never stops... as brutal as time can be, it never stops. I am tearful while reading this. Beautifully truthful as always, Max. |
| Posted by Laura Doom on 12/03/05 at 06:52 PM I can see both a big and a smaller picture here - time stops, but lives go on, before they end, as I go on & on about the quality of your writing Max :) |
| Posted by Kimberly Rhode on 12/10/05 at 04:13 AM gosh just the title was enough for me |
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