If you consumed your own
Omnipresence inside
The grieving soul your
Mother wouldn't pace around
In polka dotted insomnia thus
Your old society
Of Sunday tee times
Wouldn't of become another old
Nova.
And now the apparent storms say  only then
Can the wind leave us
Thoughtless
And only then can
Clocks whisper
Quietly how time
Erases care and grieving.