The Womb of Time
Could it be raining or drizzling outside?
I feel lionhearted to await your disposal
Of me and all our children—
The seconds in takes to Judge—
Somehow shining in the subtle sea!
That sometime an eye of Storm adverts—
To a melancholy Tempest;
We shall not land hereabouts—
By fluky skills, thou hast not moved yet.
Burning wisely, all the plays have failed.
We faltered from a Replacement,
So nightly, the winter winds, they blow—
No miscues, no abatements.
The seconds it takes to Fry,
Largely taxed, I slumber after this;
My love is underneath the sea—
And still the rumors wage—
Like the cloudbursts and their harvest.
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