Poetry of Issue #7        Page 15

Every Time Goes Away Temporally

It seems as time does slip away
That I am about to embark on such strange days
As I walk down corridors that I’ve never know
In a world where all are alone
While we talk to strangers on the phone
And pick, pick, pick through history’s bones
And suck their old marrow down
Now that though in this new era I remain a clown
There are few circuses to go around.