Time is not moulded clay
Meant to cradle impermanence
It moves with freedom
Minds cannot discern
We tread upon its trails, intrepid
Trivialities of atrophying form
Availed of all that falls before us
Envisioned of our own volition
Bound by realm of rusted blood
Etched in scrawling strewn askew
Washed away as whitened waves
Scorching scant displays of squalor
Songs of stringed structure lull
Swallowed by such forces fervent
Fraught with thoughts of relevance
And promised flights of light anew
I Prefer Not To.
