When The World Was Young

The mists of time are clearing to throw into relief angels where others see empty space. Nothing remains save the ghosts haunting portraits in the gallery of life. Some who flitted into this shard of memories and detached thoughts are made flesh in the recollection thereof, which almost affords a corporeal form despite them being presented here as no more than words and images, albeit still breathing — refusing to fade — though their reflection might have long since dissolved into mist.

It occurred, as this haunted gallery was revisited, that I, too, am near being a wandering phantom, whose cry on metaphorical, if not metaphysical, moors for unlived days and uneaten bread might yet be heard. A fate that awaits us all in the consciousness of those who remain behind — glimpsing us through the prism of time; a prism sometimes clouded by mists making the past become opaque.