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Twisted reveries,
hold out, aloft, grasping hands.
For escape, on a
tall, westward breeze.
Unlistened memories’,
bold shouts, of high, everlasting lands.
Where, faded sunkisses,
make, hard souls, unfreeze.

The weather is, always, warmer,
on a saviour’s, long, imagined plateau.
Where, vanquished selves of former,
lie, in vast deserts, like sandy gateaux.

But, on my eyes opening, I realise,
it was, just, another fascination.
Like, my quickened time, that flies,
faster, after every, yearly, station.

Each split, grained o’clock,
I knew, they pass. Away,
from, clutched gaps in fingers.
The grit, that slicks, unstopped,
vanishes from view, unstayed,
and touch, elapsed. As they linger.

There approaches, an eventual hour,
coming first. When we lose to second.
A preying, untimely, type of power.
That, only, lank hands, of an almighty clock,
could ever, yearn and use. To beckon…


…our souls. By the rangy, ringing bell, of…


…The Mortal Tower.

© poormansdreams

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