To be

Sometimes I feel I am a character

Who is living in a vintage world

My technology is retro

Part of a museum

My memories will be gone 

As fast as a wave crashes

And the colors of the world

Will all become black

Sometimes I feel myself disappearing

Into the art of living 

Part of a giant box of souvenirs

And inside of it

One painting

That one painting is me

It was my life 

No one to admire it 

It just sinks down the sea

As the planet dies with me

And the sun ceases to exist

So I take a deep breath in

And I experience everything

I just try to be

Reviews

[Carlos Lorenzo Estrada]

We truly are the hero or villian of our own story. Your poem captures the way we tend to live our lives. Is it vanity or selfishness that is innately a quality within us? We tend to see and recognize them more within ourselves when we are alone. Only when we are touched by the love of others do we start to love beyond ourselves and become part of the world we live in. Where we no longer see just ourselves but recognize the greatness in others as well in the larger portrait of life. Thank you Sarah for sharing your poem with us.

[Ken e Bujold]

a timeless read Sarah. You are indeed part of a museum, an artifact in the art of living. We all are. It is what life is. To Be.

Ken e

[John the Baptist]

Yes, it's called impermanence, and it's the truth of the material world. The last line is your saving grace, though. For what really is does not change. It just is.