Poemist Dabbles in Casual Art on A Desolate Evening

 

I, poemist
walk to the outermost sides
of the outer courtyard
of the palace named Dream.
and i shriek want, yes

i shriek want.
i want the morning
i want the evening
i want every shred of time
neatly assembled and

arranged before my heart
before this evening's over, see?
my heart used to have a tic-toc tic-toc
round it but now it don't, see?
and i want a watch and

i want some food
and i want some peace
and some cosmic security
with that, too
while yer at it

and i want time
and i want peace
i want time
i want time
i want time

and somehow
i knew
when i heard
the falling sound
that time had broke -  

would never expand
nor contract
but it'd ever be the same;
would always be the same
insensitive tyrant