Moments of the past do not last,
kicked into the long grass,:
a warm early-summer’s day
in the twentieth century
gold petals of Sylvi's verse.

Days of stormy-autumn
come with flurries of snow
melted by my rich body heat.
In the frozen snow
a frozen child
poor with thin clothes.
She will not grow old.. 

Tumbling-heaps of red, gold, brown
no crisp-crackle underfoot
just unjust slush
as electric cars glide by
where old ghosts lose their threads
and we all end up dead.. 
Pot-heads fragile, thin
with thin-like skin
silence
echoing these savage-silent-dead
memories-lost, lives storm-tossed
dust-motes float,
like gossamer,
webs
glittering in the rain
nothing is the same.
Words thought, but never said,
misrule-misled,
in the very eye of the storm
a moment of calm,
felt and finally-fled,
into the very heart of the storm
Chapped, red-raw her hands
from working the fields
soil-scented winds
blow me back to kingdom-come.
Listen! lost-time’s silent beating drum
silent, again.