Time is, when all doubt

Rests its sleepy head, upon pillows of angry shout

And there it lay

Too sleepy to play

Alone for one to see

A future reserved for those, and you, and me

So…know when

A pear splits its skin

And Wilde quotes bust guts of oats

And Clemons words about a Sawyer’s ride

Marks a Twain, are you still sure you’re fine?
About, this minor play

When one usually has to hold, and be told to say

Lay facing a warm sky but gray, my son

Purse your lips toward a setting sun
Kiss the evening sky

Where no tear drops when we die

For that day comes for all you see

For some it is within a day’s reach from here, this day
But you I know……have yet to be called

Mother Nature has work…. left

Left for you, now do as you are told