Sunday Sonnets—-Time Wins
That’s right. Back by popular demand. (Collectively, the crowd groans and immediately forms a lynch mob eager to string up whoever it was that requested the resurgence of this little exercise.) Oh, I heard it. “Who in their right mind asked for this crap?”
It’s OK.
Anyway, I’m not quite sure how this one came to be. Too many Motrin—not enough—that constant ache in my knees—the phone that never rings—or rings too much always for someone else—a lingering headache—not enough coffee. Who knows?
There is a reason I’m not given to too much introspection.
Anyway, here it is. The resurgence of Sunday Sonnets. As always, sonnet as it is used here is a very loose definition. It may or may not contain 14 lines and chances are it will not rhyme. There’s very little meter.
TIME WINS
Time heals all wounds. It also kills the wounded.
It’s kind of a bastard like that.
Time wins. Against all comers.
The comment was made in passing,
I don’t know if the time between now and tomorrow
Is just a fuse. Lit. Burning towards the inevitable.
Or is it a countdown? A ticking away of the moments
To when you actually begin ending. Time wins.
Time separates. It tears and rips. Lives and relationships.
Without conscience or concern of consequence.
No remorse. No reflection. No regard.
For person or -sons. Time wins.
Time fucks.
Hard. With no grease.
