Time is quite a lady,
shy, then bold.
Off kilter every new moon,
amused at my odyssey
in her fullness.
She was a baker's daughter,
she harvested and baked me,
sliced and toasted me,
and spread the jelly of space
to give me life, across my face.
I don't like that,
want to make myself,
and I run around spoiled,
til time runs out.
We parade like ants
in this temporary thing.
But at last, I see,
time wants me to dance,
spin til she collapses,
patch her tattered wings.
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