By Elizabeth A.
time
quiet
as dead feet,
that plod
on a cold
tile
floor
noiseless
as starving mice
with no crumbs to
feed
their hungry
voices
a shadow
that waltzes
in a slippery dance,
between sleep
between
rest
that while
the earth
awakes
will come
to be free
to be
found.
the beggar
that is Time
steals kindly
takes sweetly
and knows
what colors
our eyes do not
see
and we
are oblivious
to its passing.