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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=418479" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Sew the Seams of a Poet's Dreams</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The hours and minutes <br>Of our minuscule existence<br>Are like a road map unto death<br>Estimated time of arrival<br>No one exactly knows, do you? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time is not a race<br>Though material gain is<br>We maintain the same pace<br>Until the spiritual sprain hits<br>But we're heading to the same place<br>And there's only one direction you can go, do you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">As we wind on down the path<br>From itch to scratch to scab<br>With pits of ashes in our past<br>And smokestacks on the horizon just asking for a match<br>Appeased desire is the only means to ceasefire.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Freights carrying fate barreling fast<br>Afraid of the conductor who asks, are you up to task? <br>But hides behind nature's mask<br>Instructing you to stay on track<br>Don't let your train of thought be derailed<br>By the microscopic penny of a catastrophic detail.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Whatever is in store for your soul, don't sell out<br>There won't be a resale available at your nearest retail<br>You cannot buy time <br>Only bide time, by and by<br>Until it's bye-bye<br>Kafka once compared the self to an insect<br>I suspect he's correct<br>Because lately I've been feeling an awful lot<br>Like I'm constantly caught<br>In a cobweb of cause-and-effect<br>But this web has no e-mail<br>And the weaving black widow<br>Is an actual grieving white female<br>Merrily, wearily, barely, hold on tight<br>This locomotive life is about to crash.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The hours and minutes <br>That pass us by like honey-drips and shutter-clicks<br>Can make six-tenths of existence<br>Feel like it flashed us by in an instant<br>They sew the seams of our broken dreams<br>To the tapestry of reality<br>Or so it seems<br>And weld together the wrought-iron bonds<br>Of our interdependence<br>Like an infinite expanse of chain-linked fences<br>But you've broken off from mine<br>And slipped into the distance<br>So stripped went the senses<br>Equipped to my defenses<br>Tripping through the trenches<br>Betwixt two abysses<br>Maybe that's why I search every angle conceivable<br>For something other than hurt that feels vaguely believable <br>But nothing quite convinces<br>Because you're name is spoken in vain<br>And coldly engraved<br>Not in stone but in past tenses.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The man who tells you that these things are gauged<br>By an omniscient sage<br>Or a wise-guy in the sky who collects<br>Down-payments of age<br>Is a pupil of the ancient vision<br>Built from blatant superstition<br>Holding on to a figment of hindsight<br>That plays tricks on the pigment<br>To the blind spots in your mind's eye<br>It's the mental equivalent<br>Of a pygmy 'pulling your leg' so hard<br>That they hyperextend your ligament<br>You see, this maternal earth favors no eternal worth<br>We're all alone inside a loan<br>And all we know is all we own<br>That may be bad news to you<br>But that's the only sad truth that strikes me as legitimate.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The other day while sky gazing<br>I noticed two sheep-shaped clouds grazing<br>In a heavenwide celestial pasture<br>And it got me woolgathering.<br>I guess I shouldn't have worn<br>My jacket of fleece to the wolf's gathering<br>We stand at the withering tree of memory<br>And wonder why you had to leave<br>I attempt to howl at the full moon<br>It scowls back at an empty me.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Joe+Cabrera">Joe Cabrera</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=418479" data-title="Sew the Seams of a Poet's Dreams de Joe Cabrera" data-description="The hours and minutes 
Of our minuscule existence
Are like a road map unto death
Estimated time of arrival
No one exactly knows, do you? 

Time is not a race
Though material gain is
We maintain the same pace
Until the spiritual sprain hits
But we'..."></div>
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