Stagnant

Will the realisation of wasted time
haunt for that to come,
convincing that the past
is all we ever held and
will ever hold
That aspiration
is only a trace on sand left awash with
the towering tides of troubled time,
And not
a forestanding testament
to the eminent human mind?

Will it become another one we mourn the loss of:
leaving us in grief that overrules, and
makes us incapable
of moving on; ever rising above
from the clutches of what pulled us to our knees
And hit hard?

As it travels at rates we cannot perceive,
Will we remain still;
Swim in shoreless seas of sorrow
in quest of places we called ours,
Or plunge into abyss of thought,
and never do?