how time is created
like strokes on paper
smeared with charcoal
and a youthful fray
so poignant, each mark
furnishes the emptiness
and carries on to further dates
yet remaining as one
they build on
one on top another
so that soon its hard to follow
which stroke led
or which smear was
the shadow of a day that bled
some are bold, darkened for the ever
yet another may be sightless
for the days which pinched
that fragile part unhinged in us most
and as the piece
is crafted together
one stroke in smiles or crime
the passing of day
builds to a greater time
remember, for each which passes by
there holds a power to treat it in kind
or to let it rupture in scars
to obscure the precious mind