TEMPUS FUGIT

by Anonymous

What of the heart set adrift on the open sea on a course charted as penance for errors of omission? What heading now that destiny is left to the ordinary and measurable whims of the tide's probability? Though when not even the world-wide ocean understands its own currents--its ancient maritime rhyme?

The whale fires back, propels from the deep, the arbiter of mediocrity, the subsumer of destiny, the decider, acting on a commitment forged in the barnacle scars there on his hide, and by the rusted shaft of the spike hurled by a more innocent intention, a purer one at least, hanging there, like a nail hammered into a tree will eventually be absorbed into the concentric expansion of time.

The heart is sent airborne, screaming skyward in a battle with gravity, making a play for a place among the stars.