Time is not a treasure to be kept,
But a wild river, flowing while you slept.
And the greatest thief that you will ever meet,
Is the cautious echo of your own two feet.
That sound was all I followed, year by year,
A muffled rhythm ruled by whispered fear.
I missed the rapids, roaring with a song,
By choosing paths where nothing could go wrong.
I should have plunged into the churning spray,
And let the current tear the map away.
I should have danced on shores I didn't know,
And watched the strange and foreign campfires glow.
But safety is a slow and silent drain,
That seeps the color out and leaves the stain
Of bland regret, a watermark of doubt,
On all the passions that you lived without.
The river's now a distant, faded gleam,
The ghost of a forgotten, waking dream.
My shoes are clean, my journey is complete,
But all I hear's the echo of my feet.
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