Tyler Comstock


April 20th - Poem by Tyler Comstock

The sting from the sin of simplicity strikes
Rendering me helpless anxious and restless again
But the perfect ticking rhythm of time brings comfort
And peace as my light mind falls asleep knowing
That the bigger hand will spend the ensuing night in the eternal labor
Of forging the present into the past
Progressing through its divine and certain commute
Descending from the third to rightfully claim the throne of the fourth
As the minute hand inevitably follows suit
They produce a silent ensemble beautiful enough to draw tears
Donning upon humanity the greatest gift of our turning world;
The last minute of the first third of the fourth hour
Sixty golden hazy seconds, suspended slowly by your soul
Slipping into the watery grave of yesterday
There is no bounty, no reward for their return.

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Poem Submitted: Friday, May 7, 2010



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