Blessedly Simple Things
There is always a click, when a minute shifts.
One new tick tock between the beats.
Some speak to pins and the cloak of the old,
Other seconds are blessedly simple things,
Dark whispers that touch the skin and the soul,
Pushin' the past and pullin' in the day,
Hiding the future in a fog just long enough;
To frame the time by envisioning the moment.
Spells that are all too small to count,
But can never be forgotten, never really.
Bits of poems I find fractured in space,
Floating freely, a myth of rhythm and melody.
Where sweets and bitters play on the tongue,
Like lemon sour syrup on a perfect icy cone.
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