Minutes To The Hours Poem by Peter S. Quinn

Minutes to the hours
No matter what we say
We are withering flowers
When the night comes to day
Love is sometimes easy
With storms and thrills still
After awhile some breezy
Dreams must come to spill

Wondering what it is
That gives us glisten ley
Morning ways and whiz
Into the on coming ray
Futures are our witness
How it's all going be
Song sung in the fineness
What it is to be free

Mistakes are so copious
All around the panes
With instances bounteous
Doubtfully thinking brains
Cold little harsh spurs
Inside the garden - wild!
Civilizations wheeling whirs
Extinction's own stepchild