Imagine Time, as a hardbound book with fading pages,
Where broken sunbeams and lightning bolts
Reach an agreement to be
Fireworks, in an inkpot sky.
The way you keep your quiet
In carefully crafted cardboard towns
Of paper curtains;
Don’t you fear your fractured charm?
Or how we are both a little right, and a little wrong
When we confuse our blues with greens?
I could spin millions of infinities
Behind closed doors and galleries,
Streets and cobblestone lanes
Where moments are sold,
For that ounce of imagination
We gave up for the mundane drudgery.
We could have dwelt amidst the unrestrained scripts
Written with freer minds
Than bold typographies of electricity bills;
A routine, a reminder
Of restricted patterns and gaits.
So bound within our fetters, You and I
Can not dance to our incorrigible tunes.
21 August 2016