m i s t

The clock does not
turn back it’s hands
the best have often
tried and failed,

The winds tickling
the leaves to dance
too disappear onward
without a trace,

The sun and moon
the only tricksters at large
pretending what passes
can always return,

Me, was just a mist
touched by all the above
could neither fight the clock
nor the fleeting breeze,

And pretence was
a sacred mantle
only reserved for those two
celestial visual treats.

———–

Vidur
23Mar17