Father Time’s Forgotten Dreams
A turn of hinge, the years revolve, A lazy man upon his bed, Whose acid neurons slow dissolve The half-dead memories of the dead. We mulct in sleep a stingy purse That holds a vanity of air, An empty coffin in a hearse, A careworn soul without a care. But ’neath those foliated trees That spread their branches in the night, We drink our visions to the lees, And blind folk see through veils of light. And yet we scorn the brittle pages Of a past no longer there, Thinking we’re above the sages, As we mount the bottom stair. Who’s to say but that our slippage On earth’s waxy slapstick floors Isn’t spiritual equipage Priming us for Heaven’s chores? When will Time that wrought it all Wind up what he hath coyly wrought? Will all the world bounce like a ball? Or will it bubble up to nought? Time will tell, as Time has told, Turning hinge-like in his sleep; For all his days can never hold What all his nights can never keep.
“Who’s to say but that our slippage
On earth’s waxy slapstick floors
Isn’t spiritual equipage
Priming us for Heaven’s chores?”
Absolute gold! So beautiful.
Thinking we’re above the sages,
As we mount the bottom stair.
Love this one, Daniel. 👌🏻