Alive in the shadow of a sundial.
This is a trial and a confession.
A well that fills with storms
is around the other side, the water
slowly leaving until more storms.

The shadow agenda is focus
and the eyes face with each stroke,
first, that one was here.
One came and took care of a stranger,
in the shadow of a sundial.

Witnesses for a ruthless persecution;
all to speak in turn, the words
fall out and drip on walls then crawl
like ants. Some say to see ants
is equal to being lonely.

This is a trap door. Spinning here.
Half the time, maybe, sun. Grow
with the burn and slide with
a singe. Rotation complete,
the well is dry.

The only one witnessing on this side
found something more digital
and something real. There is no
room in the sundial agenda for this.
No room left at all for that
and all else sliding down the well.

Throw two pennies in.
The one who guesses wishes
grants them. The road is not so long,
and the dirt soft,
but surely this is hell
or heaven has no space in the agenda.

Hey PP...Your talent shows through so wonderfully with your writes...Happy New Year dude, and may love find you and bless you always...

what great lines and observations-truly gifted you are

infinite and miniscule, always leave room for heaven
where do we draw the lines, where sharp is still gradual and skewed.
I feel this thought process in this writing.

well you continue to amaze me, each poem unique, an unique experience
peace
jimmy