Dali, why do your hands melt on canvas?
A feeling of waste or pure genius.
My heart is jumpin, thumpin, thelo blue.
Those across the hill look bemused.
Like scratches on an old 45 long play.
Spinning years of worry and discontent.
Days subtle with only honest distress.
Many rounds the hands will make on lifes clock.
Without the one's I so long to see, it is no fun.
A Great Deception of Time.
Gulliver Gimble
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-great-deception-of-time/
