When time cannot grant the words
that thoughts could bring ahead to mind
And pens don’t stand a devil’s chance
to write in stolen sands of time
the pressed, turned page wilt unused
or crumble fits of rage refused
and cackle tossed to dance aflame
the soft white ash next morn remain
the reflection but a shadow makes
of what the image should become
grew tired of playing second best
the memories that we’ve left undone
the night when wonders ever cease
and pondered paths yet not begun
when nothing it had hurried seems
to pass the time too late withdrawn
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
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