The Oppression of Father Time*


(image by crilleb50)


The days weigh heavily upon him.
He hunches against the necessity of change.

Seasons are not his friend.

Just when he’s locked in to the way things tick,
the leaves begin to fall,
signalling the call
to wind down.

Nothing for it,
but to buck up and reach for those hands
that never fail.

Time to pull the tides from their safety nets,
and wash away all traces of the past.

Where’s my wrench, he asks himself,
and unbenches to his duty.

His rumpled suit, his derby—
all camouflage to the naked truth:

Time marches on.

Kat Mortensen©2013

*I have written a few pieces with Father Time as the subject. If you’re keen to read more, type “Father Time” in the search box and click.



Lies roll
       off your tongue  
              like the tides run
                     under a lunatic moon.
You can’t control them anymore
         than the sun can cease to burn
                ’til the hand of God snuffs it out.
How many more will you tell, to protect
your secrets?

Kat Mortensen©2011 Protected by Copyscape DMCA Takedown Notice Checker