This is the last poem I'll be posting on here, this and all others past, present, and future will be found by clicking on the link to the right

that says "poems"

There is no time to collect.
The gatherers won't recognize looks,
but those who hunt will. Your heart
and realization is what the wind drops
as it carries the snow across the highway.
Horses will stand in the streets
and roar as lions with their
jowls slouched toward Bethlehem,
their drivers now the fuel.
The seconds are always the same
as the first. Bringing burden home.
Slowed down you wouldn't know
the difference.