‘Grains of Time’ and Other Poetry by Dino Cass The Society June 5, 2013 Poetry Grains of Time Somewhere through the hour glass, slip grains of time, eroding fast. Past and present times collide, revealing all truths hidden lies. Ties that bond are held so dear, but suddenly they disappear. Fear not hidden, courage slides, rocks back and forth, from side to side. Wide the claustrophobic hole, a slender grip with which we hold. Tales breath life in far off lands, vines array, entwine the hands. Demands and rage, sorrows swept, beneath the rug, secrets are kept. Winter creeps, and snow invades, The sun is high, pull down the shades. Let it in, please shed some light, on why we wait, while time slides by. Set, Go Unquenched, I thirst, I cant pretend, Though seldom ever starve my sin. Im nothing, if not black and blue, My temper short, my patience thin, And though my trusting heart cant win, Surrender is no friend. Vile is my search for hydrogen, Move the mountain, push the wind. Toss the temple, beach the land dry the well, approach the end. Scale the walls, climbing rope again. Everything, alien. With blistered feet, Walking on hands, Tattered, scattered, I barely stand. Some may, easy, call it ugly, Lacking, facts to comprehend. There is no shame, no blame to lend, Scratched the vinyl, around it spins, Note of thanks, next of kin. Deprived, and dry, try to swallow, Scooping out the pain to hollow. Hardest fallen wins the prize, Loud and clear, my name is hollered. No time to dance, time to wallow, Lost, the time piece in the swallow. Blank, the map I follow. Standing, viewing, Prepare to start. Chairs aligned, many rows, sit smart. Winding trail through an audience. Eyes of relief, silence remarks. Sharp their teeth, I swim with sharks, Upon my sleeve, I wear the marks. Water cold, water stark. Cold, the metal, Tight in my grasp, I’ve graduated first in class. What it is you seek to know, Take my advise and do not ask. No reason, for to what I quest, A shard of light, the answer, best. On your marks, ready… Related Post ‘The Garrett Loft’ by Leo Yankevich In garret lofts poor artists have quite often painted women bathing, combing hair inside a nearby mirror… __________________________Your eyes softe... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.