Time ripens the chase
Of things best forgotten.
Things of a new mold today,
Were all a grand vision
yesterday, And forgotten about
somewhere in the future;
Between the unknown
and all things pulse
quickening and new,
Is time, the mortal snare
That gives a dry rash To the skin
of our eternal reality.
May it always be within me
To Peel back each day,
As a layer of dead skin,
Until there is nothing
But a fresh, baby smooth
Tenderness, left of me,
Until there is nothing
At all.

Poem: jeffrey vionito

Picture:  http://paharidotme.wordpress.com/2012/09/05/day-is-over-night-has-come-today-is-gone-whats-done-is-done-embrace-your-dreams-through-the-night-tomorrow-comes-with-a-whole-new-light/

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