Poem-A-Day: Day 272

Playing Fiddle Blues

Time is the sanctimonious ass
that keeps pushing everything away,
plotting against every motion.
Time ticks down and forward,
plays the fiddle in seconds,
each pass of the hand
is a swipe of the strings that
plays tunes filled with remorse
second to none, or something less.
The remorse is nothing more
than the idea of passing
second judgment on every motion, a
fiddle singing a sad, sad song.
The song swiftly sailing the sea,
whaling thoughts, and spearing with
fiddle strings, fluttering through the sky.