Poems from Autumn Harms
There is a sense of constant motion; / We always seem to be in flux, / But if we consider this notion, / Constant motion is not the crux...
There was a youthful lass
Who had no time to pass
But as she clutched the fountain pen
Words excited her head to spin
Now where's the...
To a tot the tickHangs too long before the tock.Seconds seem to stickAs the hand moves 'round the clock.
To the young frolic,Time does not...