Making the myths

Time is, 

And shall be.

And if we miss it,

More will be along,

Soon enough.

For someone, 

At least.

It will bellyache, 

And crackle,

In more than

One 

Hundred 

Colours.

It will need filling,

With magic,

And letters,

And a running out towards the sun.

With the caged whimper,

And free wheeling roar,

Of the human hand.

And, 

If it gives delight,

We should get right at it.

Wrestle the gold,

From the mountains,

And cast great monuments.

Scorch ourselves across the page,

And the fields.

And raise a dance,

For the lust and heartache.

Because our ancient years,

Will not forgive us,

For wasting the night.

copyright Niall Hollaert © 2020 all rights reserved