The Poetry Marathon

He, yes he, himself is time,

time so rich, oh bountiful time,

it plays on his finger tips, when it is rightfully thine,

and sits by his feet, when it is rightfully thine.

Some call him a thief, a burglar at night,

they watch their doors for a burglar at night,

but he is innocent when he is out of sight,

can’t put a name on a face when he is out of sight.

He spends his time more ludicrously than money,

when time is to be saved like a babe without money,

his actions are rather uncanny,

and his words can’t be deemed anything but uncanny.

Yes, this is the tale of a man with no end,

this is the tale of the man who will see the end,

this is a man you should not offend,

this is the man who will offend.

I, being from great ancients,

believed in myths, till I saw one myself.

I was without sight from then on- I did not perceive,

a quest, ridden with impatience.

Many did not understand, my foolishness,

and my pride, my anger and my folly,

but they did not know I saw a myth,

one reserved for exclusiveness.

What could this myth be,

that so ruined my very existence?

What could have left me for dead?

What could not look back with no apology?

Come close and I’ll tell you,

I’ll whisper it in your ear,

why, I looked in a mirror,

and do you know what I found staring back at me?

A monster held to my heart, oh so dear.

Quickly, now, we tiptoed,

away from Notorious Joe,

our cover we were sure not to blow,

“Ouch!” A throbbing big toe.

Jack whispered, “Oh woe.”

the torch in his hands aglow,

no light from the kitchen window,

the glass, imported from Glasgow.

“Be quiet!” Jack nearly bellowed,

a vase sent crashing due to his elbow,

made in Malay Archipelago,

says the label, but it’s really from Mexico.

Little me said, “Oh, oh”

as Joe walked in with an espresso,

and she was mostly known as a virago,

and she was mostly known as a virago.

Hello fellow Marathoners! I’m looking forward to today’s marathon. Hope all of you have a good night’s rest!