there be no grief
and there be no music
without time to grieve
and there be no strange dawn and no strange death to grieve for
our lives are spent in portions flung fleet like
petanque
birthdays and deathdays
every aliqout of our memories vanish
as spheres of salts of Mercury conspire
to meld and bend like time is bent
and the conspiritors of man’s fate hide behind
the darkling thrush
that great bird cranks up into the sky again
with wings near snapped by frost
Icarus be the judge of our days
Flynnpoetry 