They say that poems should include seasons,
Pictures, feelings, sensations; 'imagery'.
Whether it be a concoction, something,
Everything, anything, even nothing.
Whether it be things, memories, persons.

Meticulous pixels make up pictures,
Like when I fell, I had many sutures.
So accurate, captured and so painful.
Imagery of warmth, my heart beats blood red.

I've admired you for some time, oh my.
Your imagery of such indistinct hues!
Like abstact art, leaving me asking: 'Why?'
Gawking, in awe, you're igniting the fuse!
An imagery: 'Burning love in ashes.'

Take my hand and let me take you back to a time when
Time did not matter, when one second was replaceable with the next-
Easter Sunday, making mud pies in our little Purple dresses,
back to making junk into something fictional
And believing in everything make believe.
We climbed castles, discovered bigfoot, found our prince
All in a matter of seconds- and we never ran out of time.

Time- a matter of perception
Quick sand, sleep, death.
There are many things to slow down this barrier to living,
But nothing to make it go, to make it tangible.

If we were to place time on a scale it would measure into
A timeline of dinosaurs and hieroglyphics, of disasters and
The great discoveries of the ocean's depths- however, I am
Speaking of time as an emotional blip.

To measure time as we do our emotions takes away from
Our perception of that blip- of irretrievable time unaccounted for.
We must make time our foundation to understand it will always be there.
It is what you make of that time, how you allow that
Blip to affect you, that makes moments into concrete memories