The Brain on Time

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There is much to life
 When one only drifts
 
  When one merely sifts 
 Through the sands of time.
 
  Playing with sand 
As though it will always be there.
 
  It is not until one stops to look at the ocean,
 And see it's beauty in the sun.
 
  To see the glory of the waves,
 To breathe in the peace that they bequeath.
 
  For that is what is left,
 The gift sent to us by nature.
 
  It, however, is not nature's most wondrous gift.
 No, it is far from it.
 
  The most wondrous gift in all the world,
 Is a gift that most abuse.
 
  It is the gift that is trashed,
 And ignored.
 
 It is not even wasted for consumption,
 or left out in the yard;
But it is left to rot.
 
  It is a part of us that, in ignorance,
 Is left to be forever young.
 
  It is a part of us that when used,
 can grow old in the most marvelous ways,
 And it can astound us with its power.
 
  The brain is a muscle 
 That is meant to be used.
 
  It is meant to be worn,
 And it is meant to be abused, tenderly.
 
  It is not meant to lie dormant,
 satisfied with the tender mercies of inconsequential blathering
 That are so often found in modern culture.
 
  To exercise it,
to nurture it,
And to build it.
 
 
  The little things add up,
 In the end.
 
 The little moments
That consist of Herculean efforts in comprehension. 
 
  The few minutes of Beethoven,
 Soothing the addled mind.
 
  The few moments
of ranting that ease a distressed soul 
 And ease a troubled mind.
 
  All moments that are a massage 
 In the preparation for alteration.
 
  For the mind always needs alteration,
 And it will never be satisfied.
 
  For the waves will always come,
 And the sun will always beat down.
 
  The stars will shine,
 And the rain will fall.
 
  So will the brain await 
 Another session this fall.
 
  For it is always growing
 and changing 
In us all.
 
If we nourish it,
and perhaps at times lend abuse, in the most tender of ways,
 Then the greatest gift known will always astound us.

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