By A.E. Bayne
A fine and frivolous fantasy is time,
Which whips around the glass, boldly sublime.
Ignoring all protesting, the milieu
Fights any wageless war that might ensue.
Never ebbing, like a sentient wave,
Another fickle lunar escapade.
Its steady hands ever blindly gripping
Undiscovered threads frail from the ripping.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment