Everybody rides the wave of time.
Some ride fast and others, perch slow.
All make book for the end of light, for the
ride of demise where day is left, unwritten.
Peaceful playground, my imagination, this
zoo of misfits who color my dreams and hue
Focus of clarity sees through my window
and history is made, but yet be blended; my time,
the time and my reality.
We ride the train, where merciful stories puff so slowly.
I guest with an owner, we write together, we share
the ingredients, our dreams.
Puff a wave, feel the sensation of melange
and fingers making beat to time, in me.
2012 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015