To Be Quicker than Time

Parched grass stilled in misery

contrasting the sky’s beautiful mystery.

The wind blows, but the blades are still,

and as cool winds, their hearts are filled

with stone colder than the atmosphere.

Not a twitch, nor a sound to hear.

 

A patch of stiffened foliage burns

no fire, no toss, no turn.

And on these blades rain does not pour

to douse the flames, for water, poor.

 

It used to rain plenty in the Fields of Stone

but the world ran out of tears to weep.

 

And so each blade of grass, rigid and frail,

falls to pieces

                      with the silent wind.

 

The clouds move their same sluggish pace

 

but we,

           we now travel faster

                                             than the wind,

and the clouds,

they struggle to keep up

                                      with each piece of us.

 

          While we surf the Winds of Glory,

       We shall win the race for the universe.

 

The End

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