The story is in the headlines,
The dates have reached the deadlines.
Incomplete plot all around,
Until its center is found.
But you will applaud for the tale be told as such

Smile and say, thank you very much

time is a man made construct
yet here I am
in the age of snapchat and iron man
the dinosaurs are long gone
the plague has left us too
the warfare of north and south
is all in the rear view
we’ve flown past the moon
and left the braids behind
if I had a bluetooth time machine
what else might I find?

Last night
Holding me tight
He whispered
“You want to keep me?”
Yes, always.
“I guess I’d better get you a ring.”
I smile
Trying to hide what I’m thinking.
That this is terrifyingly exciting.

Due dates;
Schedules;
Deadlines;
Dates,
A revolving strain on time,
A resulting
Pressure
For proven effort;
Will
Our productivity
Decide
Our professional fate?
We look inward,
And contemplate,
And find
Our update
Is late

Have you ever tried to draw a picture
without lifting the pencil from the paper?

One line, uninterrupted and looping
in on itself, swerving in arcs and switching
directions at sharp points.

The line grows at a constant rate
but the vectors change, how the wind is blowing
and the wobbling arrow of the compass.

A head hanging closely over the paper
and a hand pressing the pencil with trembling
force against the desk.

Eyes squinted, focused intently on the next
angle as the lead begins to tremble and crack.
Just a little more, just one more turn
the piece hasn't come together yet.

The timer beeps its descending count
10 to 9 and 8 to 7.
Sweat condenses on the brow
and the lead shatters
as it lets out its electronic shriek.

Now lift your head, trace the line with your finger
where it loops and why,
and when the work is done you will realize
where the line drifted away
from the hazy picture you had in your mind.

A scribble dons the paper,
the line intersecting randomly
and turning when it reached the edge,
influenced by the frame, not your whim.

The ocean never cared, only carried.
The universe never felt, but swelled.
At the start must have been a **** fine time
to be alive,
but there then is the here now.
Nostalgia proud.
Feasting on the delicacy from
a moment of childhood blur.

The rapture is not waiting for you, nor me.
The rest of them neither, just entropy and ether.
A dalliance, daily fawning.
Morning stretches and yawning,
two moments of apex excess.
Then the dusk rusts the sky,
belts tightened 'round younger necks.
Begging to be bled instead of sexed.

Every margin scrawled with the cat-calls of handsomer men.
Opinions stolen from anonymous ponderings of "Remember when?"

The fates would have us conclude, due to their rules.
That taut strings fraught with change are messy wirings.
But if a slant rhyme can still give your skin ******,
Then perfection for its own sake should be dismissed.