The glass reflects the path of painful scars
That cross the furrowed contours of despair.
You wondered as you wandered under stars:
Is time a flaunted thief of youth and flair?

But time is not beguiled by lost regret
So often found inside a boundless soul;
An essence which fills life itself with debt
And usury that leaves no digit whole.

The verity of vision you composed
Of surges then retreats has caused you pain,
As time now comes with subtlety imposed
Upon the marrow of each day's refrain.

Prepare to pay the curse of Charon's toll;
The Ferryman demands your very soul.

Tom, you write like a girl, few male writers share your sensitivity. I really enjoy this one. Flame on!


Les