Rings made out of argent
cut to shape by golden shears
Face masks for the ardent
worn through the coming years
We measure hours with tea spoons
as we transgress dark frontiers
The days pass inexorably
in the movement of the spheres
playing out our normal lives
'til the tragic interferes
The harshest noise of all
must be the grinding of the gears
So deafening, the silence
that assails our listening ears
resounding as the bulwark
of our freedom disappears
Will we ever find the means
to exorcise our fears?
Should we ever wipe away
the trackings of our tears?
The days pass in procession
like the music of the spheres
Rings made out of argent
cut to shape by golden shears
Steve Wheeler © 16 June, 2021
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