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)