Poetry / Cinderella

I sit in the moss
as the clock strikes three.
There is time to remember.

To Sugar, lost in violence,
struck with the irony
of modernity.

To my children, in a world
where Ozymandias
and Ginsberg
reign.

Better times been seen,
where there was a dream.
but the bullet flies faster.

Fast is where we’re going
When sugar slipped me the slippers
from under the step-sisters,
time seemed slow.

but now with methamphetamines
and promiscuous drag queens,
where is the time?

Now with heart disease
and enslaved Chinese
where is the time?

So when I sit in the moss
as the clock strikes three,
surrounded by
the stony memoirs
of a thousand forgotten writers,
I reminisce of times
belonging to a different existence,
and think,
Now…
where is the time?

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