I was rummaging around in my closet and found this little poem from senior year of high school. I haven’t posted much actual fiction in some time, and since I’ve just been discussing timing, I thought this was appropriate to post.
Untitled
A brush, a touch of hand
For but a moment, though.
Twelve times a day, at night twelve times,
The stroke of love sets off the chimes.
Movement constant, progress slow,
A hush, love caught in sand.
An English Fictionary 