Slow MoverThis Moment – Lost
a thought of beauty strikes me
and I must express it so
but as I reach to grasp it
it flutters away,
a moth,
a feather,
a small white bird
startled by the motion
of my wanting.
my hand closes
around nothing,
void,
and I stand there
foolish with longing,
as if the air itself
had promised me a gift
then taken it back.
and I weep
for the passing moment.
it will never come again.
not in that light,
not with that breath,
not with the same small door
opened briefly
between the soul
and the world.
May 8, 1987 (age 19) (Expanded and updated June 2026)
My Space
LukaszD