Sitting on a post,
in the middle
of the half-spent field
uncomfortably fits
the sense of Now's
age-related meaning...

Shafted, immobile, impaled on time's
yellow-brick road to the
(OLD) Emerald City, I am
(somehow greener and more greedy
in thechnicolor's glowing life,
but not in time's
sickly, feeble
gleam of phosphorescent strife,
oldly...
coldly...
not so boldly
as to blind,
glowing slowly,
shining lowly)
screaming,
"no, the harvest time
cannot have started
now"!

Sitting hard-ly,
jarring badly,
middle split by ravaged rhyme,
seems foolhardy, I'm so tardy,
I don't even know the time!
Oh so painful, tearing links
adhered in wood and petrified,
(so very weary, and the dreary-
ness of fear just makes me
leary, sick with
query, as to
"why am I alive...")
ripping freely,
from the bindings
as I ache
and rethink time,

now has
become
Now...

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 8/2/02