A Timed Sonnet*
Poem by elysabeth faslund
The days, invariably, quickly pass.
Natures care not to amend tiresome hours
Hiding, lurking, sleeping. Casting away
From mortal shores. Trespassing. Always gray.
Unmindful of colorful patterning
Lives, as a rule, require. Preservation
Of the soul in brilliant tapestries needs
Flowering crescendos, not boring weeds.
Denouement, in time-set twilight, seldom
Lights any spark to firework-light the skies.
Days, industriously speeding, passing,
Of dullness impregnate the years. Massing,
Becoming monsters we lustily bred
From colorless years. Mortality fed.
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