Time is…

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Like gold-dust on your window pane, it’s framed in such a way you may dismiss it as a sunny day, but do not pass it by. Instead, run a wet-tipped finger trace, perhaps a bit to tongue in taste… A smudge upon your cheek in waste, a pondered moment’s why. These seconds spill like sandy dust, moving forward in living trust, upon these windows, time is thrust; you cannot live but try.

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About Keats

Oh I'm sassy and I'm sexy, So silly sweet-and-sour Delightfully disastrous And deliciously dour I'm flippantly foolish, Filled I am with fear Can't concentrate completely, and my conduct isn't clear But to bravely be my best I Bring bravado back, BEHOLD!

4 responses »

  1. Too often simply left to gather up that dust, and how it gathers, how it falls, grains trickling at our feet…so little time, but how often do most actually stop and take a gander out that window?

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