Graduation

Back in my day, we had five years of high school in Ontario. Five years was a long time, but it also gave us the opportunity to explore and flourish.

 

Many of my friends from that time have found that, since graduating, we have neveror only rarelymade friendships of the same depth and resonance.

Each

 

Buffeted from all sides,

burning light behind,

gripping scavengers ahead,

a new resident arrives.

No different from the last.

No different from

the next to come.

Simply one.

No more.

No less.

One.

 

The one joins the many, forming

a mass of one that is many.

The many step together toward

their common destination,

enter together the realm

of unknown trails,

leaving all else

behind.

 

The one watches as the many

become the fewer,

and then the fewer still.

Some are seen to move forward.

Some move back.

Some do not seem to

move at all.

Still others stray from

the path entirely.

 

Each one

shall be

cherished.

 

 

Anticipation

 

One after another

I have witnessed

Step

   Through

      That

         Door.

Each departs from

A known starting point

A home

A sanctuary

And each will enter

A realm of shadows

Of uncertainty

Of fear.

All they have lies in

A

   Single

      Spark.

It must be cherished

It must grow.

 

My turn arrives

My leap of faith

 

My door.

 

My life.

 

 

Inevitable

 

When someone leaves

The world of those who remain behind

Becomes ever so slightly dimmer.

I am nearly enshrouded in darkness.

 

And now I must step away

From my few remaining candles

And embrace the night.

Forgive me.

 

Ancient

I am an ancient child

Who has tired of his toys

   Yet prays that his toys have not tired of him.

As I have flown ever

Toward the final exit,

My once-blazing light

   Has grown dim.

All that remains is eclipsed;

The door is closed behind me,

Left unlatched for another

   Who shall come.

And as I hum a tune

About gleaming suns

   I know that it is time to move on.

 

 

Graduation

 

Five years passed

Five years spent

Five ephemeral glimpses

Into the molten core of man

That may never be lived again.

Years of wonder

Years of grief

Years of walking

Until each walker finds his pace

 

Some fall behind

Others move ahead

Still others are trampled underfoot

As they slip from our fingers.

 

As this piece of the path

Comes to an end,

We see two roads diverge in the wood

And I—

I shall make my own path.

And that will make all the difference.

 

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