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Time is Ivy and Gold


· poetry

Father time

torqued and wound, with compass eyes protruding, furrowed

beneath white gold brows

churning gears

a slow second hand ticks one . . . two . . . . three . . .

A belt of gold fastened to his hips weighed down

1,736,176 pocket watches tick, he watches


White wisp clouds adorned in buttercup yellow glide

silver and pearl throne

blue agate, turquoise, carnelian, onyx, ruby

green ivy climbs, wrapping around its seat, he sits


I met a saint there, in the top of the trees beneath my window

he has the shape of a heron yet gold, feathers

laced with silver and copper, his eyes

watches, his height

that of a man.

Upon his back I climbed

thrust upon the ambient night like glass upon water, we lifted

glided, landed

through labyrinths of pearl and sapphire walkways, streams

liquid gold, he lead me

to his throne, to the Father of time.

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