Sonnet

I ask not for time stopping perfection,

That would dim the sultry sun’s reflection,

But for a warm hand that encloses mine,

Fitting snug, made to hold both hands and time.

Yet neither will we vainly pursue it,

Ever chasing fleeting Time’s chariot,

Flinging ourselves into the white capped sea

For false deadlines, to ground on shores rocky.

I ask for thoughtful hands that grab the reign

Ceaselessly hurtling that chariot on,

As we rest our feet, borrowing a ride

Upon the gold horses of time, alive,

Within moments that stall our frenzied breaths,

While outside this carriage, earth spins towards death.