There is no chance
no hope…
all these innate vernacular
sips of aged sagacity,
importation of songs
whispered meaningless.

Doggerel monogamy to prose
poised with cached breath,
one more time
pen scratch - hen pecked,
hard wood splinters
etching paper into porous.

…and one tear drop slid
unchecked
to blur time,
smudge ink,
permeate rhyme.

With gravity
she sits straight backed,
razor edge bite,
mind furled…
there will never be enough time
for me
but my children
will have a chance.