Grace Hides In Out-Of-The-Way Places...
Is innocence such a dim memory,
Only to be found in flowery script,
Some battered parchment in a long-conquered fortress?
Would Sir Lancelot recognize sweet Guinevere,
Were she cloaked in a business suit,
Creating the fortune of nations?
Time has wound us tight,
Busy with the bother,
Slaves to information overload.
I long for typewriters and quills,
The feel of paper in my hands,
The quiet that falls with darkness that knows only stars and candlelight.
Civility and service are too complex for this age,
They are ghosts that haunt my dreams,
A song my grandparents would sing were they alive.
Perhaps Time is the name of a dragon,
One that slays us without exception or fail.
AquarianM
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(C) 11/04/2016