
Man of War
Tim Cantor, 2019
As nurture takes a turn, the trees they cast more shade
The seeds they grow through gravel, rapt children raise away
Memories of pulled flowers, memories breed as prey
It's hotter, it's harder
In the early days of May
Time is our own torture, feared thoughts of one lifespan
Youth is long and lasting, yet short and sweet and damned
Time speeds through what follows, and seeks its days unplanned
This is why it wills
With such a wicked hand
Low skies, rose skin, clouds bitter white with wind
Bewildered by the sorrows; these black shapes, stealing from within
Like objects, we hold them, as ink inside this pen
They pose the past as been
As greed to start again
The thieves of May are sly, drifting towards the lonely
The heart draws weak the chin; wounded, longing, slowly
Pain lightly draped in need, bandaged by the ghostly
Strangers, unknowing
Phantoms gaining closely