Am I too early
or so so very late?
Time is but a smudge
of mixed acrylic paint.

My history, the canvas
and my pen a brush.
Time is but a smudge
dripping through my clutch.

Dreams blur into nightmares;
nightmares into day-time thoughts.
Time is but a smudge
of profits and loss.

When the end comes
my journal will be passed.
Time is but a smudge
that my children will grasp.

They will both read
of my love for them.
Time is but a smudge
in this infinite realm.

They will both know
how much I love them so.
Time is but a smudge
and if it weren't for them I would of let go.

Time is but a smudge
in an never ending orbit
time is but a smudge
and they have made it euphoric.