Those Days in My Hands

I held the shapes of those days in my hands, soft tremulous heartbeats held inside delicate forms. Those days were young and fragile, they had yet to grow beyond the early hours of morning and the evening seemed so far away. I did not know what kind of day they would grow into, whether they would be those days that are gone and forgotten before we can even begin to remember them, or whether they would be those days that live on for as long as memory holds them.

There are days that we can never forget, and for many reasons. There are the good days and there are those bad days.

The good days are as light as a moment taking wing on the memory and floating across the skies like birds taking gentle flight, as they weave the patterns of those days around the mind.

The bad days are slow, heavy, ponderous. They trundle across the mind like heavy machines of war, digging deep ruts that scar the landscape of memory as they move into their positions. All seeking those places that will cause the most damage to these fragile worlds we hold so carefully in out hands, feeling their tremulous heartbeats as they feel those war machines of the bad times manoeuvring their heavy dark hulks ever closer.

Then those good light days that float free take flight from our wide-open hands, suddenly seeming so far out of reach as they fly away from the encroaching darkness that shadows our world.