Time Has Wings Made of Wax

Time thinks he’s free 

to fly rings round the sun. 

He can’t feel the drag 

we poor souls add to minutes 

as we hitch a ride, 

clinging blindly to Time. 

We never were made to soar high. 

But Time’s wings are wax. 

When he gets too near heat, 

he plummets to earth. 

We land in a hole we call death. 

Mourners don’t see Time rise up, 

a wax Phoenix, taking 

new hitchhikers up for a ride.

published in Sonnets to Sing