Times Grip Poem by Kurt Philip Behm

Trapped inside a wasteland,
dying inch by inch

Slave inside a rusted heart,
feelings chained then lynched

Later now than yesterday,
earlier than goodbye

Spooled like thread that can't be sewn,
the needle asking why

But time contorts, reversing,
trumpets call you home

Eyes unspoken, voice untouched,
senses all atoned

Words on fire with freedom stirred,
reasons scorched and bare

A silence brewing louder,
new light burns through the air

Eleven Angels fly as one,
and twelfth, you join their throng

With wings now soaring inward
—time's grip left dead and gone

(Airplane To Seattle: March 8,2017)