This day shuts its eyes to time. It beckons the watch to cease its pounding, to give up its makeshift Hell in lieu of the truth of its Heaven. Ticktock vanishing into the thinnest of air, diving beneath the surface of oily oceans, plastic seas, broken mountains, loveless wars and blinding despair. (Could these be made into song?) They are song. Look, read, listen, carefully, remembering where you are... © 2013 the spirit of Love dancing through Mark Richard Prime
(The Weaver's Song)