Time’s Grip

Trapped inside a wasteland,

dying inch by inch


Slave inside a rusted heart,

feelings chained then lynched


Later now than yesterday,

earlier than goodbye


Spooled like thread that can’t be sewn,

the needle asking why


But time contorts, reversing,

trumpets call you home


Eyes unspoken, voice untouched,

senses all atoned


Words on fire with freedom stirred,

reasons scorched and bare


A silence brewing louder,

new light burns through the air


Eleven Angels fly as one,

and twelfth, you join their throng


With wings now soaring inward

—time’s grip left dead and gone


(Airplane To Seattle: March 8, 2017)




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