At night he contemplates the things he brings to the table;
A table near the kitchen chair in which he sits and stares;
They may have impaired his hands and sides;
But no one impairs the rider of time.
She sits and stares at the pictures;
She shakes them in her hands and demands-
A reassurance that those images will make or take-
Something from her presently,
She is sad, perhaps a bit agitated and maybe realizes
That she is happy no more-
But no one can see what the rider of time has in store.
Rope in hand, she hits the floor.
They are at a cathedral-
Waiting in the parking lot.
They sit still and listen to the radio;
And stare at the image of the cross.
No one dare speak a word or talk of lore-
But gaze incessantly through screens of new things-
The lore, the feelings, they do not matter anymore.
I thought things were preserved;
I thought things could be erased;
I thought things stayed seemingly static-
But the rider of time had something in store-
In time I shall ride it no more;
And we all drop to the ground, and fall asleep on the floor.