Smell of Time

Smell of our times
A dirty slab of stories
Been pendent at the threshold of time.

Something speaks volumes,
The enchanted parlance of newspapers 
Hang beneath our elbows as foes
Dirtying our tidy spirit and souls.

We cut capers to the arc of tide
With loose fragments of unimaginable ideas.

Shredded our ideas and yet,
Sunken behind the skyline
And lost to debris of time,


We assuage lost periphery of our souls.

For we create, we live, we dance,
And we gambol in lengthening eternity
Of time-space heavens of delight.

Copyright: Welkin Siskin