Time the spirit of change
But God said to him: Fool!
This very night your soul is required of you...
Luke 12:20
Seek a column, where words align,
Not a burrow lost at its end, benign –
Where it speaks of fur for the brush so fine,
A squirrel’s charm outshines the sable’s design.
Forgive the irony; perhaps it fits,
In this “Arcadia of bliss,” where laughter sits…
A mouse darts through macram; and grain,
In a net, a dance, a whimsical game of gain.
(. . .)
Yet here, the brush for artistry is seized,
The old smoker lingers on, undeterred, unpleased –
Burrowed deep in poppies or "Mack,"
Oblivious still to the clock’s measured knack:
"Tick-tock. . . Тick-tock. . .
Тick-tock. . ."
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