Views of the Lost

The time clock keeps on ticking,
its hands reaching up slowly,
trying to ease the kicking
of gears and little pullies.

The window across the red room
faces open towards the clock,
and as the day approaches noon
its curtains cause a fluttery mock.

The wind disturbs the silence
though the sun is risen high,
casting, spitting shadows
across the red room's sky.

Yet the time clock keeps on ticking
through the humid day and night.



The pale threads weave together
like slender fingers of a pleading child
and frost-coated limbs of birch trees
that shudder with the passing smiles.

Softer than the sunlit silk curtain
that casts luminous rays against the wood
of the smoothly polished floorboards
that cater to what the master should.

They sing like wetted lips
and the rim of thin wineglasses
as swiftly highstrung as the harp string
and the old maid's graying tresses.

Yet after the day is old and done
the paper-thin webs stretch anew
as lively as such small things can be
that weave together the world's bright view.



There are patterns trailing across the light
like shimmering puffs of color
they make their way into the night
and dissolve into each sleeping flower.

As the roots dip into blue lagoons
and drink up the sap that lies there unspoken
under the fondly lit light of the moon
as the stars from galaxies away die broken.

There will be gentle singing clothed in the wind
as it brushes away each strand of hair
from the living creatures it calls friends
and the love for the earth which they all share.