Seeking time comes often to a rote around edges of reason, my friend,
when tomorrow moves away from reach into the lengths of a near past.
It is not just the distance of time and space, or memory, but what portends
In-between the fast changing chords of our once rhyming flat bombasts.
Look at it here: movements, shapes, forms, people, hope, desires, and lusts,
And pleasing exuberance circling within one spot of deferred dreams.
So we wonder restlessly where all the time went. We trade masks that must
Hold fears within claypots of growth. We howl our tears into the stream.
We don’t own then, it seems, balms that soothe with scents of silent mimesis,
Else we would sway with wine bags in reclined poses, seconds spent to please,
Which held us then when time favoured the pockets of our scant playfulnesses.
We would not wonder where they went, days spent sprawled in the shades of ease.
It could be only relief that mischief remains, and love’s comfort in the end,
To sew a new tapestry, and to daily, patiently mend. It was never ours to rend.
___________________________
Being too lazy to write a new pre-birthday poem, this will have to do it for the last day of my twenties.
Edited, from Dec 2009.
. I think it was to the guy at the airport in May who wanted some “American gift” from me when I returned. Or something like that.
.
Considering how much you beat the living shit out of me while we were growing up, even for the filmsiest reasons, 
please consider this form of public greeting a mild recompense for all those fun times. Sorry, the plane ticket to Britain is beyond me at this moment, or I’d have come over to deliver these cards myself* 
As excerpted from the list of Yoruba proverbs researched, translated and submitted by students of my foreign language class in their first homework assignments back in August.
