Roy G. Biv

Reading the time line of the passing days takes a toll.
A toll that doesn't accept quarters.

Overspent and tired, I've begun to feel cold.
Cold like a war without martyrs.

Yelling and hollering makes my throat feel sore.
Sore and quieted as though my days are through.

Gelling my thoughts to stand tall seems all I can score.
Score and checkmate, alike a moment gone askew.

Belittling my own existence was never an option of my own.
Own being and alien born from a time long forgotten.

In between the moments, I've realized why the sword was put in stone.
Stones and sticks handled by those gone rotten.

Vitality conjoined with endless blood work, that's the family tree of Life.
P.S. Life and Roy G. Biv are good men, indeed, from the spectrum of time and light.


* * *


Vanquishing your fears is something that the closeting boogeyman will never forget.
Forget-be-not your childhood riddled with curiosity-prone attention.

It's never been what you want, but instead what you admit that you regret.
Like a lengthened menu of refreshments that don't look appealing at a standing concession.

Before any day is through, you'll settle your thoughts alike a fire yearning either sand or more wood.
Woods of pines and maples flourish the Appalachian trail like a distinguishing memory from hikers.

Give what you take and take as you give, otherwise you'll just be badgered until you do what you should.
Should it be a flood of escalating repetition, alike a stream of heaving bikers.

Yellowstone has been branded a place of disaster in the future, being a super volcano.
Volcanoes and hurricanes pierce the local news on the Tele and tell us what true fear is.

Or is it the politics that speak of disaster, a disaster planned and forsaken similar to a tornado?
A tornado of vortexing diversion, smokes and mirrors that'll never answer, but instead dismiss.

Realize the day is gone, or just realize the day has yet to rise, I say.
Vib G. Yor once told me, "It's all just a masquerade for us all to either decipher or play."

12:01 No.M.

In a moment of lost time, a sliver of light can exist, and just as easily not exist. The time is lost, and therefore the inhabitants of that time are lost as well.

.. ..

It may be similar to an alarm clock created upon a conveyor belt, and thereafter never once wound and placed aside a bed. Instead it is thrown inside a storage unit, to slide by our passages of time, and it holds a time of its own: a distilled and endless moment it knows as 12:00.

.. ..

While many a folk would regard the idea of a clock frozen in time ludicrous, I think it far from untrue. Is the clock not capable of ticking an accurate measurement of time? Or is the clock too similar to a tree falling in the woods without an ear to hear it crash to the ground?

.. ..

I’m not going to tell you the clock has feelings, nor that it doesn’t. I will say, that it had the drive to tell time and it just wasn’t given the chance…

.. ..

And if it has dreams, I would imagine they would be tick-tastic… and possibly start with 12:01.