Where Time crept to and hid
I know not

If you were to search for Him
And his 3-wheeled bicycle
He wouldn’t be beneath the proverbial bridge
Treading on water
Like the spandex-cladded Dreamers
At the local gym…right before bikini season
Time would be on a bus
Throwing banana skins in my wake
As I try in vain to make up lost ground

I saw her the other day
And I pondered
Where did it go wrong
Alas, the memories hit
like an Absinthe-hangover
My youthful exuberance
was an Arsonist in his day job
Setting fire to bridges with panache
A God-given talent
Well, someone’s god.



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