THE GLIMPSE

I hear it
faintly
when I stop
all movement
all activity
and sit
embracing the squirming silence.

I hear it
senses blend together
my hearing turns to seeing
a glimpse
like a light flash
that burrows its razor-edge pinprick
deep into my soul

I see it
into the beyond
a veiled, blurry-eyed peek
how terrifyingly fleeting
life was, is, and will be

I feel it
a certain knowledge
sitting as a brash stone
so much of my work
the hurried tasks
the urgent list
the weighty schedule
will one day pass
into forgotten nothingness

I see now why
I keep the noise loud
the activities frenzied
and run from silence
so I avoid ruminating on
countless untold scenes
that would not make a readable story.

So what are the stories
that should be told?

What are the stories
that should be lived?

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