Man alone measures Time…And because of this, Man alone suffers a paralyzing fear that no other creature endures. A fear of Time running out. – Mitch Albom

From dust to dust

And ashes to ashes

the saying goes

As Death and Night escort a cessation

So Life and Light replace the end

With something new.

The stars shine forth in earnest amid decay,

To show that all need not be lost

For what is truly Loved and Guarded

Cannot be swallowed by Time’s keen hourglass.

Endings come as they must,

The necessary Evil in an endless odyssey

of fulfilling ones Destiny.

To fear the end is to ignore 

The chance to start again.

From second to second

Hour to hour

Day to day

Year to year

Generation to generation,

The first must end

For progress to begin.


This ends my 24 Hour Series! I hope you all enjoyed it — I know I enjoyed writing it. I’ll be back tomorrow with some exciting news, and some updates. Leave me a comment if you have ideas for another series of posts. Cheers!



Abashed the Devil stood And felt how awful goodness is, And saw Virtue in her shape how lovely. Saw, and pined his loss. – Paradise Lost

To sleep again I go

My work of day is nowhere nearing completion.

I’ve found I cannot end

each day so full of tasks still needing done.

Yet still I lie across my sheets,

cool air blowing kisses on my face.

My mind is churning,

with the things left but deferred

and wonder where I could have saved my time

to crown the day one endeavour better.

I ask how might I have been kinder

to the people who I met,

or given higher consequence

to the ones I merely passed.

I wish I could have saved my time

Or had it locked up in a vault.

I could have so much more,

and I fail every day, 

and reflect each and every night.

I wish one day I could be better

and I know there’s hope for then

I might become the one I’m meant to be,

or at least walk closer to the path.



How quietly we endure all that falls upon us.

How close we come to success,

only to be thrown to distress

by pain or fear or uncertainty.

How rude the awakening

that comes as the tottering foundations

come crashing down

turning our lives to dust.

I’ve been climbing so long

I’m too far up the wall to turn back.

I didn’t notice

my rope’s been cut

my safety net

is gone.

My fingers are slipping.



Tell me a piece of your history you’re proud to call your own.

When all is said and done,

what will we have left behind?

Our generation, so mired in despair and pain,

indifferent to suffering, 

yet moved to change the world in radical ways.

They say we cannot understand the world,

they give us not the chance.

Why should we have to prove we are worthy

to inherit the mess they leave for us?

Stand we tall and proud

to claim the life long deserved

and create the world on our own terms.

Take back the power they’ve stripped us of,

take back the society so perverse.

Find a remedy for the affliction of history.



You either walk inside your story and own it or stand outside your story and hustle for your worthiness. – Brene Brown

I walk unhurriedly back to my side of the city,

the air shimmering with light bouncing off the

fresh fallen snow.

I pass groups blithering on about this and that,

and I try to squeeze between them and the 

banks of snow as tall as my head.

I walk alone

as per the usual,

giving time to spend in my head

chasing thoughts and questions

without an answer.

Do they all know who they are?

Have they defined themselves?

How deep do their façades run?

I pass through the crowds,

invisible as a ghost.

I suppose to them

I am.



His intelligence is obvious,

though flaunted just a bit.

I understand his want to get across

the knowledge he has kept.

In his speech is joined 

the lessons of humanity and choice,

but I still wonder

if he has grasped it right.

Myopia and rationality

are intents of all our minds

and how we see fit to allocate their place

is the mystery that eludes us in our scrutiny.

How can one be called the better

when another leaves them worse,

and causes great commotion, among the population

that’s forgot.

His diagrams and charts

are static in their existence,

and fail to understand 

the great complexity of human spirit. 

Is it so difficult to fit a panacea to person,

than to find an explanation that describes what cannot exist?



The world dashes about outside my window

the cold air pressing its nose against the pane.

I sit in near silence, warming my hands and face and toes.

My driver is sweet and obliging,

talking of weather and daily generalities.

In his speech I detect an accent, 

sleeping among the English words,

tingeing them in a strange hue.

He asks me a question, and I reply,

“Je comprends ce que tu dit.”

His eyes dart to me in the rearview mirror,

a new light shining in them,

the light that bursts forth in recognition of a kindred spirit.

A moment later, the dam erupts and words strung together

trip over each other in his haste to hear his mother tongue.

Rapid fire, back and forth we send our comments.

How much I’ve missed this language,

this tongue as familiar as my own. 

The conversation ends abruptly

when at my destination we’ve arrived,

I’m at loathe to leave and still I bid farewell

in the hopes that I have raised his spirit,

and given joy to a man who might otherwise

be seen as incoherent.