The days, invariably, quickly pass. <br />Natures care not to amend tiresome hours <br />Hiding, lurking, sleeping. Casting away <br />From mortal shores. Trespassing. Always gray. <br /> <br />Unmindful of colorful patterning <br />Lives, as a rule, require. Preservation <br />Of the soul in brilliant tapestries needs <br />Flowering crescendos, not boring weeds. <br /> <br />Denouement, in time-set twilight, seldom <br />Lights any spark to firework-light the skies. <br />Days, industriously speeding, passing, <br />Of dullness impregnate the years. Massing, <br /> <br />Becoming monsters we lustily bred <br />From colorless years. Mortality fed.<br /><br />elysabeth faslund<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-timed-sonnet/
