PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The winding of the clock

At the new Twilight Hour

Seeds time immaculate

And prophecy of a quiet mind,

Like saplings slowly striving

In chilled sucking quicksand

And absence of activity,

The nothingness of night.

But roots dearly cling

To Mother Earth's embrace

And the power that flowers

In our Crazy Cosmos.

Try to fix it, we are told.

But there's nothing to do.

How about you provide

Food as the soul-stuff in wind,

The sudden shock of electrical surges.

Fine, behold divine dancing hands

Erasing mistakes and

Performing playful prodigies.

The pencil brushes the paper

Conjuring the sweetest scenes,

Like the perfected swaying

Of a beautiful ballet

In which they gracefully greet me---

That is to say, we are met in space,

Unknowing but we are all the same---

Prancing on petite feathered feet.