Winter Violin
Time used to be gentle
like bike bells singing harmony
with a summer breeze.
Time seems to be picking up speed.
A freight train without an engineer.
A Hendrix electric guitar on amphetamines.
When did time become a runaway brute?
A trickster, a taker-a mass grave maker.
The shell game player. Raper of dreams.
Whisking everything you love to the far away...
Putting your cries on mute.
Time is picking up speed.
Withering things but never planting seeds.
Plucking the shriveled blossoms of memory.
Dumping them in a landfill.
With broken dolls, rusted 5 speeds, black lantern dreams.
Time is yellow rings of selfishness.
Forever hungry- lacks any empathy.
It devours the cream of life.
Turns the radiance of innocents into junkyard eyes.
Splashing gray onto the temple.
Welding bent hand to crooked cane.
Smashing everything in its greasy path.
Time is endless clownish-black comedy- a careen off a cliff.
A vintage violin at the bottom of a winter stream.
Time blasts into celebration when you're down to your last breath.
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