The road moves easily within the fortress skull

One luck-drenched park bench afternoon
while dust drifted in and out of sunbeam
streams eyes closed I dreamed of living
of love-stained moons and lake-bound swoons
and stars so vast so supreme that only
a poor cosmic speck of a remnant spark
unremembered could hope to comprehend it
of the gravity of gravity and all the loose
and hellbound distance between here and now and now
and then the slow sloping dip of the long trip
at a whim an ungrim wager with fate I dreamed
of how in old age our deciduous dreams their bones
still seductive nudge us toward a place arriving
at which we can only look back helpless bemused.


There is only time

it’s not yours to give, take, waste, or spend.
You cannot pass, tell, save, or bide it;
You cannot make it, it will never end.
You can’t stop, have, lose, or find it.

It will not expire, crawl, creep or drag;
there is no past, double, quick or run.
No good times, sometimes, old, or lag;
it can’t be told by clock, or bell, or sun.

You cannot kill it, poison, stop, or shoot it;
there is no hang time, short or long, or nigh.
You can’t restart, replay, reverse, reboot it.
There is only time. It will not die.

You will die.
Time will fly.