A thing I often dream in waking hours without light is not for power, wealth, or fame, nor to take broad wings in flight. But rather I look West, and in these dreams I simply cast my humble eyes beyond the sun, beyond the sun into the past. The setting sun takes with it one more day on to its rest, but riding West I kept the day in sight, and did never let it set. “Hold on to the day,” I said, “The night may bring its sorrows, but the night, for all its darkness, brings naught darker than tomorrows.” And I chased the setting sun, and behind it lay another, a golden setting sun of yesterday, which I could catch if I rode further. Holding on not only to the sun which I saw rise, but soon I caught a glimpse of days not seen by modern eyes. I gazed upon the centuries, learning all that they could tell, the Western sky ablaze and bright, until the ancient sun… it fell. “The sun also rises,” sang a silent voice beside me, and I turned my head to see not what had been but what would be. I saw the cold steel blue of morning peeking over the horizon, and I thought it could not match the ancient sunset’s gold and crimson. As I sat back and watched, the many days passed by with haste, I saw that none was any different from the day that I had chased. Looking Westward I was chasing dreams of days that were never here. Looking Eastward to the rising sun, I only blindly hoped and blindly feared. But looking Southward, I could see, and seeing each from morn till close, I saw that it was not the sun, but mortal men who fell and rose.
Yea, it's a poem, I just put it in prose to see if the rhythm was sturdy enough that it still read like a poem without breaking into its quatrains for the plebians. I haven't written poetry in so long. But isn't everything so much better in verse, albeit very, very rough verse? Wasn't that a much more entertaining and universal way for me to discuss my personal debate on why I'm a history major and whether or not to move to Wyoming? Cause I know you wouldn't listen if I was just rambling about that again. I dunno, maybe that's just what happens when I stay up too late looking at maps and listening to classical music. It's not nearly a finished product, just some thoughts I threw together off a line I've been playing with. It's one I've been meaning to write though. Still don't know how to end it, or if that is the end. We'll see. Either way it's a story about time travel that doesn't involve flux capacitors or becoming my own grandfather. Thoughts?
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