Today I know that life is but a dream,
For how else could a moment ages past
Arise now on the surface of this stream
Of being, sliding freely in its churn?
Before, rash memories swirled up, eddying fast
Against the current’s flow; now hours return
To present tense unrippling, it would seem.
Yet fiction glints off this which I might deem
Pure fact. Forthwith, it blurs and slides away
With shoreline forests slipping past the hull
Of this stern oarsman’s boat, soon turning dull.
By ArtistBird1955 – Own work, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39737891