Hmmm it must be fate but I wrote something that mirrors your poem It's called the End of Sandman. It may not be as good as yours but I'll let you read it for yourself. Nice Flow.
"The End Of Sandman"
I hear her biological clock ticking
But what she doesn't know is
I too have a pelvic pendulum
Want Deeply to Tick with her Tock
Yet time is a fugitive
So little we have
and I'm tired of chasing sunsets
So I chase her to her door
In hopes to place her minute hands in my hour hands
Watch as she resists my touch time after time
Yet she gives in to my kiss
As she releases the waves of her lips over mine
Draws back and forth like the smoothest tide
Until my sands are drained and
I am left an empty bottle floating
in the ocean of her arms.
By Chris L. Wright
The songs and art in this book are about our collective emergence after the pandemic and trauma of the last few years - comprised of 5 collections: World as Refuge, Where We Live, In Our Hands, Rhythms of Change and What We See & Sow.
A further collection of poems, many from years in the Middle East, but also the California San Francisco and Central Coast areas (Santa Cruz, Carmel, Big Sur, Berkeley, etc.).
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"The End Of Sandman"
I hear her biological clock ticking
But what she doesn't know is
I too have a pelvic pendulum
Want Deeply to Tick with her Tock
Yet time is a fugitive
So little we have
and I'm tired of chasing sunsets
So I chase her to her door
In hopes to place her minute hands in my hour hands
Watch as she resists my touch time after time
Yet she gives in to my kiss
As she releases the waves of her lips over mine
Draws back and forth like the smoothest tide
Until my sands are drained and
I am left an empty bottle floating
in the ocean of her arms.
By Chris L. Wright