Time writes no wrinkles, endless or sublime
Calm or convulsed as if it were comprised
Of the idea of eternity as if it were a child
Born of the naivete' that most do despise
Sending time on the long hunt for learning of life...
Life paints the seasons, spring to winter
Like building a home with wood that splinters
Like in the minds of men who made the 3-D printer
Confusing the child on his hunt through life's filter
Time writes no wrinkles but allows for free-thinkers...
It is within that freedom where life is projected
Upon the great movie screen of the minds-eye reflected
Where memories interwoven with time are perfected
And eventually manifest as History, then protected
By ultimate truth, and carefully connected...
* a work in progress