‘Half Past The End Of Time’ by Andrew Bradford

I was shameless back then, unafraid of what I might say or do

Came across a butterfly and admired its beauty, only to realize it was

Dead

I awaken each night around five to ponder my own fate

Yet never find the time to properly prioritize my world

A broken acorn falls lightly to the lawn

The September storms made the days seem somehow more fragile

As the liar claims to heal all who present themselves for miracle working

Consider the hemlock and all it means

Beauty of a sort and deadly for the all-too inquisitive

Down past the hills there is a patch of virgin timber

The prattling voice of some far away river fails to calm the men who shiver in terror

I perfer to see us all as gardens in need of tending, of weeding, of watering, of care and love

Lasting here languidly until the stars at last fall to earth

And the sun bakes us all to ash

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