Those shadows the epitome of time

let me bruise them so they cannot move,

make those pale moments clearer

in the light of the hurt-

a life no longer drenched

in shapes eclipsing the stopwatch,

now I can pause time when I want to

escaping the minutes for hours,

see the clouds in still shift,

alluding to an illusion

of some fading minute,

the hands of the clock skim ...

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Sat here again splaying the phrases

almost photographic, tapping minds

into my aged remarks letting frame

pictures grey those partitions wise,

but the room years pursuit for youth,

dragging that pen for a crayon,

drawing foetal scrawls on umbilical walls

confused written out in blind art,

too young to be theirs, too old to be mine.

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