Time alive and burning with adrenalin, with life’s power in our feet, I will remember even now in this aging defeat.
Now rhyme and time are analyzed by fools from cerebral kingdoms, where plastic people trace with foolish fingers, a world that has become habitual, and utterly boring.
We once had wonder, and that vast expanse of summertime lasted long to English heaven, until the maturity hookers made us statues, and after that vending machines.
The Old Man of Time wanders the seashore, and laughs with the autumn janitor, as leaves and shadows surround him and the tide comes in, and washes even his footprints away.