as days twist into weeks, months, years,
they become catch-pens for grins, for tears.

wrinkles belie age, while illusion
softly undulates to dissillusion.

from age to ageless, times stands erect
as we mark our cave walls with smutted sticks
while we cement our suffocating mother
and warp her mein with physical notions
and shorten her whirring life by eons.

to work, we innocently go, sack in hand
looking for meaning each sweep of the clock
shoulder-shrugging other's pain we see,
and over-shoulder-looking from fearing our own.

03/31/2005

Posted on 03/31/2005
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