If I could catch time

 in my hand

I’d put it in my space pocket.

Every now and then

take out a pinch and

breathe it in real slow.

When I felt low.

Or perhaps

rub some in and

soak in some evermore

through clogged pores.

Maybe glimpse a different future.

See a far light.

Not these dark walls

of my own construction.

But it is so hard to hold.

It slips away.

Drips softly

back into old books 

stained photographs and

tattered yellow documents.

Fragile survivors

from a time when I was real.

~John Holland~

Reprinted from the book “Dry Bones” with permission by the author