You violin-necked widow and black masked thief, You blood soaked fiend and mother of grief, Clasp the weak when distracted, Burn skin to ash and love to death, Freeze into winter and decay every leaf. Time, murderer of pulse in broken vein, Take what is not yours and leave none to gain. Make you death the thing so sweet, To be desired blood over mother’s milk, To leave and roll in and hope to drain. And if virgin is raped and bastard born, If the wings of innocence frayed and torn, Time can be beautiful if you look closely, If you can see what is underneath; After dusk is the hope of the morn’. Little baby, with your halo still glowing, Spring, bring new life to growing, And when the birds whistle of dreams, And the rays of heaven shine on infant crown, The grass comes back and the river still is flowing. Beauty is in the strength of a new day, Knowledge that skies can’t always be gray. Temporary Time, don’t forget me, Keep rolling the tide and turning the moon; Time will hurt if allowed to, But rather, let it be what is wonderful and new. -Chenoa
Posted on: Thu, 01 Aug 2013 19:39:56 +0000