I’m looking for wisdom. It’s a never-ending quantum orb of life asking me to refill it with each passing moment, a scavenger hunt for the most precious jewels hidden deep in my mind.

The Peonies are dying. 
I have watched them 
Pass through the many stages of their lives,
From their first blossoms,
Bright pink and soft to the touch
Like infants curled up asleep in a crib

Those were immortal days for me. Shiny, like the piano keys and my grandmother’s table and the chandelier and my grandfather’s ring.

Ah yes, Gaia. They are the thieves of everything, aren’t they? Why do you permit them to hang out in your house? They drink from your milk cartons and spill the last drops on your floor.

Was he a fantasy? Or was he real for a short moment, the gods letting me in on some proprietary information that only a special few seem to know.