LEAVING
THE PAST
The future asks for a sacrifice
a gesture, a weight,
something small enough to carry
but heavy enough to matter.
Newton
calls it motion.
Einstein calls it light bending.
You call it becoming someone
you weren’t before.
Time
is a pulse
tapping under your ribs.
Roads split like bone.
You choose one.
You lose ten.
At
the event horizon,
memory thins.
You reach for a harp
tuned by God,
or a piano
worn smooth
by a blind man’s hands.
Whatever
sound you make
becomes the past you leave behind.
