The Rider of Time

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.

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