It’s a silver horse galloping past your window
the metamorphosis of past and future
stabled in your mind.
Images of tomorrow and yesteryear thrive
Emotions and hopes wither and die.
Our mothers wreak havoc; their knitting chaotic
Our fathers weakly admit they are wrong.
Our brothers and sisters without eyes
rely on their senses blind and bleeding
slipping through the piles of bodies
until they fall onto concrete floor 20 floors below.
Painted on smiles greet us wave us by
the great tombola in the sky, past wizened angels
and youthful crones. the old the meek the weak combined.
In my pencil case lives a troll. He hit. He hit. He hit.
In my mind lives the past and future and me.
Butterflies, Adam and Eve and hard men.
We are all waiting for our brethren, who never came.

by Andrew Watkins, Sept 2017