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
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