we move forward in time, propelled, a
force from behind, rush of water, wind, flying free
until we slow, slow, and are borne back into the current
once again,
back until our arms tire and the tears rise
once again,
an endless loop of time, where
forward and backward,
yesterday and tomorrow
are all endless illusions of time circling
around and around and around again,
caught in the grooves of a broken record playing
over and over and over again
on the dusty phonograph of
deep, still waters
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