Epoch

                                                   By

                                       Charlene Iverson

Time is but the devil's tool

Building hopes and dreams

For the future

And then dashing them on stones

As age cripples the body and warps the mind.

And she flies on the wings of fantasy

Carried away by a tiny tremor of hope.

And the memories of yesterday

Fade into the dark desolate crypt of eternity.

Her heart beats to the tempo of divine lust.

With no one to hear

But the wind and the black of the night.

For she is old and withered.

And although her sensuality

Has not been tempered

By the asphyxiating

Hands of time,

She is but a crone

To the sprouting creatures of lust

And she dies on a bed of sorrow and woe.

{After writing this poem, I was inspired to write Eva Templan: Terror by Night.}