Dearest hand, may thy desperations hinder,
The mere desires of future events unfold,
For a heart that wants, seeks to fasten thy hands,
But thou'st hands, fasten, holds a story untold.
For a stream flows some steadily pace,
As do time, who flows as a lonesome creek,
Yet, the lingering lusts of the desiring souls,
Shall to the future thou'st fiercely seek.
Dearest time, for the creek whose water holds,
Thou'st undoubtful truths of thy future untold.
Yet to some, the stream is but immensely brief,
For the creek's rushing stream yields thy grief.
And tell'st the story of dreams unresolved,
Upon the midst has't dreaming tales dissolved.
And too, for the current dreamers with goals untold,
Moves thy creek too rapid, for his story'st yet to unfold.
Oh dearest time, must thou'st be too passive for the desiring souls,
And too fiercely swift for those with unfulfilled or desiring goals.
A poem on the perspective of time.