Tricks and Drones

June 18, 2009
The tide rises and it falls,
Tame, yet escaping through wrinkled floors,
Making its way between the hands of clocks,
Slipping through fingers and landing on rocks
That will turn into tiny specks, so coarse.
Time drags on with an immeasurable force:
Past the child in a cradle, lady in a chair,
The establishing, the growing, the graying of hair.
Tiptoe past my first pet's grave, lined with fish of gold,
Passed the For Sale signs that quickly turned to Sold.
Now the trees' silhouettes are showing in a way
That it is impossible to decipher night from day.
Just like the tide falls and rises,
Time itself has no surprises.

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