Winter Violin

Time seems to be picking up speed a freight train without engineer Hendrix electric guitar on amphetamines. Time is picking up speed children born yesterday wobbling off to college the next. Time used to be gentle like bike bells singing harmony with a summer breeze. somewhere. once upon a nursery rhyme time became an indifferent brute. A trickster taker-a mass grave maker playing the shell game whisking everything, you love far. far away...putting your cries on mute. Time is picking up speed never watering the seeds plucking the shriveled blossoms of memory dumping them in a landfill with broken dolls parts and blackened lantern dreams. I pray. someday it slows enough to smell the roses black coffee stars and cinnamon on Sunday toast. Time is yellow rings of selfish forever hungry- lacks any empathy it devours the cream of life, turns the radiance of innocents into junk yard eyes. It's become a bitter root producing thorn without blossom splashing gray on the temple welding bent hand to crooked cane. Time blasts into celebration when you're the last one left smashing everything in its greasy path. Time is endless clownish-black comedy- careen I'm a vintage violin at the bottom of a winter stream time pays no heed to any frozen screech.