When in the pace of life,
The month makes friends with year,
They grow alike a dozen times with beer,

They have no sniff of strife,
The month is abstract time I fear,
The year too never seams to reappear,

They have no stasis though they're rife,
At least I never see them twice.

In the waking twilight,
The sky looms still,
Amused in dying passions of colour,
A school of stars swim frozen in the timeless seconds,
Stalled out of sight behind the withering elation of evening,
Perplexed, the outside world is grasped in overbearing memory,
Locked out by windows then eyelids before it is encased in my head,
I bend it slightly to convey a folded beauty,
And I spill it out onto this virtual page,
Light as paper,
Pen flowing as binary charge.