Timed Art

Time slows down,
Basking in the scorching sunlight,
Melting, molding itself to the
Boughs of naked trees.
'In Flanders Fields the
Poppies grow'
Blanketing pale dancelazy grass
That reveals nothing but
Those who stop to smell the flowers.
A graceful requiem hides behind
Wrought iron cemetery gates,
Always there, waiting to be discovered
By newfound eyes.
Men rage across a milky vase between them.
Fish swim through cerulean seas,
Birds soar through azure skies.
Millions are stranded in fields;
A girl lays on light green grass,
Her thin arm reaching toward home,
Bony hand clutching the weeds
For safety.
Time marches in tune with the
Hammering footfalls of soldiers
As the screams of innocents sound.
minutes turn to hours
Turn to days
Turn to years
As time slows, stopping as it plummets
To the ground where it shatters;
Gears and springs flying,
Screws scattering,
Glass fragmenting.
It starts and stutters ticking its
Continuous rhythm,
A simplistic art form.

The End

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