Old Time
Morning, drudgery, hope. Happy.
Wake to the sun on fire,
a wandering wisp of a dream,
In it’s forgotten desire, a candle bath,
as a sonnet sings sentiment as bright as the morn.
What is a plum situation,
But a way to keep a certain dream certain,
to keep a certain garden growing,
Roses bloom of palettes rich,
among a faulty forlorn patch,
This is no sanctuary, this is no magic.
Old time has cracked it’s knuckles,
on a crackled yearning clock,
Old time has had it’s way,
as the shuffle starts it’s flock.
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