Against the current swims the steadfast one
who thinks to beat the ocean at its game.
What starts as just a wager made in fun
becomes, after an hour, much the same
as boasting that you could stare down the sun.
You cannot win. Admit it. There’s no shame
in realizing you are very small,
and not much worry to the world at all.
Against the pull of time, our lives spin out
and at the end, our threadless, empty spools
have sewn us neither certainty nor doubt,
but just the simple winding sheet of fools,
that wraps up both the whisper and the shout
and never bothers teaching us the rules.
That threadbare piece of cloth becomes our shroud.
It’s all the carry-on we are allowed.
17 Jun 2025
© 2025, John Litzenberg. All rights reserved.
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