Ghosts and Shadows of Our Hectic Pace

Alone and shared our lives must be;
conundrums of dichotomy.
Though paths be joined by many friends,
none can follow to our end;
cannot traverse behind the eyes
to see the thoughts our words disguise.
Important still, these travelers joined
imprint themselves with each friend coined.
Impressive soul, which gives and gives,
but never lessens all it is.
This the gift of all we meet
who for a time walk to our beat.

Oh, the lives we meet and pass;
they start out slow, then gather fast.
The world, to children, gives no sense
that all around lacks permanence;
as blissful youth, kindly blinded,
we throw ourselves, lightly minded,
into whatever calls our name;
we saplings never heard of flame.
Collecting friends for happiness,
we soon discover more is less.
Spread so thin, we struggle to keep
any of those considered deep.
Balancing act of old and new,
we bridge the gap then break in two,
as years and life too oft impose,
and shake the petals from the rose.

Oh the lives we meet and pass;
we set a sail upon a mast,
and venture far from all we know
in hopes of finding where to go.
We wander in discovery's name
through peopled lands of foreign fame;
past strange delights and strangers' homes,
outlandish sights and vast unknowns;
through our dreams' exotic nights,
o'er the highways, 'neath the lights;
and find in journey's wild embrace,
we're the thing that's out of place.
Here, we're odd, our strange the norm;
realization is a sudden storm
whose violence drowns our sunny day,
while what we know is blown away.
Far from home, confused, alone;
here Confidence rescinds her loan.
Out we reach in time of need,
and perfect strangers prove to be
out greatest friends, if for an hour,
and from the flames produce a flower.
And from that flower meadows form,
as strangers gather, grow, and swarm;
they play the part and then become
our friends' and family's equal sum.

Oh the lives we meet and pass;
those that fade, and those that last.
Mother, enemy, stranger, wife;
minutes, decades, months, or life.
They play their role, be friend or foe,
they do their job, then off they go.
They open doors or slap our face
to rouse us from our present space.
With subtle whispers and love discreet,
or pulling rugs beneath our feet;
they wake us, that we see that light,
or blind us, that we stumble right.
They break down walls and break our hearts;
in savage ends, disguise a start.
Of pain or pleasure, they take no heed,
they simply give us what we need.
They shape us, mold us, form the vines
that laughing, frowning leave in lines;
the written story on our face;
ghosts and shadows of our hectic pace.

Oh the lives we meet that pass
as we descend the hourglass.
In gloomy procession, all those we love
will strand us here for worlds above.
They leave a space, a silent gap;
a glaring hole on a grievous map
we must forever work around,
but never fill or step inbounds.
Yet only we the living mourn,
or own lives that much more alone;
those who pass are not all gone;
they have not vanished, just moved on.
So when I go and don't return,
place this note upon my urn:

No worries now, my sweetest friends,
the dying part is done.
What brought me here has taken me;
for now, our time has run.
But don't look here, I'm not inside,
look 'round if so inclined,
and find in lives I've met and passed
the parts I've left behind.