There is a wheel
with iron-wrought spokes
(but a hub of shining silver)
slowly turning underneath our pacing feet.
Are we holding on too tight to rungs
inevitably pulling out of reach?

If we let go tonight
will we see whitegold morning brightness
rising up in rays again tomorrow
Or
to our demise, see sadness-grey
in streaks across our loveshed, lonesome skies?

We cannot reap whats not been sown,
can't tend to fields that we've left barren, fallow.

And yet we grasp
for fear of being
left
forgotten

hollow.

01/20/2006

Posted on 01/20/2006
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