Midnight In Cozy Red

The fixtures of time's process
locate themselves in a
transparent world of ever-changing
illusions of right and wrong.
While Father Time sees into
the distant future,
claiming the desert as his
sanctum,
my naked thoughts of planting ideas
of politics and reverie that
prosper well,
become liquid, painted
lips.
My mouth is suddenly moist and
sultry.
I know that I am conditioned to
live cleverly with the
minutes on the clock.
I play the waiting game of
learning the pattern of the
patient spider's web,
my anxious breath swelling as
I move.
Uncorrupted I hear the sound
of little cat's feet, distantly
offering safety.
My world as I know it will
surely endure hardships,
hear the winsome charge of another
century's point-break.
When winds of war settle,
we will bend our hopes of
complete surrender,
freedom for a price.
I gaze into the crystal ball
and find a melange of subtle
cries for help,
as I return to my free vision
gawking at a silly, awkard
snail.