The days, invariably, quickly pass.
Natures care not to amend tiresome hours
Hiding, lurking, sleeping. Casting away
From mortal shores. Trespassing. Always gray.

Unmindful of colorful patterning
Lives, as a rule, require. Preservation
Of the soul in brilliant tapestries needs
Flowering crescendos, not boring weeds.

Denouement, in time-set twilight, seldom
Lights any spark to firework-light the skies.
Days, industriously speeding, passing,
Of dullness impregnate the years. Massing,

Becoming monsters we lustily bred
From colorless years. Mortality fed.

elysabeth faslund

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-timed-sonnet/