Time For The Heart
May time be a bonus etching the hands of a clock,
This grandfather betrays my upper lips,
This small treasured clock betrays my lower lips,
Let my mouth be a jargon of repetitions,
Language is the colossal subject of taste and time.
Dreams are manufactured on this united spirit,
Loving you with vigour, loving the kindness
Of a pious man, whose parted hair redefines him
And clasps him like a man with forelocks.
Loading the back with ammunition, he cries!
The guns must be blown and shot,
The musketeer is where we lie in prison.
His historical period believes in him,
The mildness is polite, and hardness of hearts
Manipulates, bleeding is the job the heart loves.
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