It’s hard to believe in summer
In the dead of winter
To imagine love making
In any other time than the present
Pensive moods; swing strange thoughts through my mind
Grasping the meaning of time
Time is unstoppable
Gobbles up who I am
Spits out my existence, into the ‘moulding pot of dust’
It’s mercifully impersonal and relentless
Chiselling my ‘nugget’ from life’s place
My words my legacy
Frail, very fragile, but compelling
I lay me bare, open for scrutiny
Be it only a fleeting glace from some kindred sprit
It serves to validate my purposes
