poetry | prose

To the Pessmists, to Make Sport of Time

"Gather ye rosebuds while ye may"?
"Old Time is still a-flying"?
Robert Herrick was mistaken.

This time is not a bird,
it does not fly,
but oh, how old it is.
Time passes,
but does it ever pass away?
Perhaps pass on?

If time is a bird,
then it is a wizened raven
whose feathers have fallen
into thick black smoke;
smoke from the blazing fire,
for the roses are burning down.

And so,
it is not rosebuds ye gather,
but ashes.
And time does not fly,
but hobbles, crippled,
the bane of existence.

[Author's note: Tied with Bleach for my favorite thing I've written. I like the "wizened raven" bit, especially. In case you don't know, this poem was inspired by Robert Herrick's "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time".]

A 27names production.
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