Time

I lay awake

‘neath cotton sheet

far late into the night,

or early morning,

if I check the clock,

its blood-red numbers

near pens and tissues,

a novel I haven’t finished,

and likely never will.

The coating of dust telling.

Telling of time.

Time past.

Time spent.

Time at a standstill.

Not present time,

nor times to come.

But of your time,

its abrupt and unexpected end

another night,

when it was far too late

to reset,

fall back,

or spring forward.

And too early

to imagine death.

Don’t believe them.

Time doesn't heal

all wounds.

Time doesn’t heal

wounds at all.

The Versesmith