The Cycle of Poetic Time

As time again becomes a thing to pass
in nights of seeking solace from the day,
becomes again the sands within the glass,
again the heap of autumn’s slow decay.
As time in cheapened metaphors is sold
to anyone who pays the poet’s price
of baser substance fooled to think it’s gold
to fools who think the metaphors are nice.
It seems eternal love is just a joke.
“Forever,” just three syllables to place
within a volta turned to be invoked
for nothing more than nothing can’t replace.
Eternity will heal the wounds of time
as surely as a final couplet fails.

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