Poem, Scenic, Short story, Weekend

Left behind.

Time passes as it will, unchanged, unmoved, untouched. Yet what it leaves in its wake is everything but.

For the traveller by foot, it is as leaving one’s old shoes by the wayside. Perhaps to be used by one less fortunate, or more likely, to be forgotten.

For those who use the wheel, it can be the same if it grows more expensive to repair than to obtain a new one.

And here it is. Why would it be that here about a sign post, a wheel would be left to age and elements?

Who would seek out the answer when the one who caused the question left without care for what they left behind?

Perhaps knowing and unknowing are equally as pointless. Like leaving a wheel about a sign.

A prompt response.


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