adventures in dysthymia

Friday, October 02, 2015

The Creation of Time, a poem

The Creation of Time

Then god created the stars
and set his angels to counting them.
It took forever.

It continues to rain.
Each drop speaks its name
and then forgets it.

When the moon waxes,
the birds sing all night,
calling tomorrow home.

I have written out my future,
etched it on the rocks that slowly
erode into nothing.

Who can read it now?
Who could trace the letters
and count the stars

to find her name?

Stephen Brooke ©2015

disjointed thoughts, jointed

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