. . .It's That Time
Shredded shadow crawlin' silently through a splintered floor
While movement stops, a starvin' soul at nothing sops.
The dreaded time, the loathful time and I can't feel the breeze.
Candy tombstone tries to hide . . .
Truths, lies, promises lay tied.
My sparkl'd eyes pass by, a memory wept, a stolen bed I kept.
Useless words I speak no more. Both listen, saint and whore.
His axe dull from death and black wreath hangs distress.
Lonely beggar, lonely thief . . .
My demise not disease, but hidden wink's grief.
From end back to start
Little children hand-in-hand; cement smiles join grin-in-grin.
White collar'd elves tip toeing spittle from peddler's broom.
Women quiet; whisper of dark cloud doom.
Is this the truth . . .?
Shadow weeping, creeping for ounce of ruth
More by this Author
An abstract/prose piece that delves deeper into my life at a stand still.
A simple, heart-felt free verse poem about America's forgotten spectator sport: Dirt track racing.
Not many fans of early television ever admit to not liking the "Andy Griffith Show." But me? I have endured a few casting miscues for as long as I can.