Lies a boy in a pond

Lies a boy in a pond with an hour glass.
Turn away, my writhing son?
Never- for in times of need
does the evanescence crumble
to the lilac shadowed
sky

There is a brush, they tell me,
that scrapes the wind into
rags and vagabonds,
leaving the marks
of a yellow beyond all golds
of this day

It is a bright, no
blinding era that we live in,
this mass we like to reference as home.
Does the sun then sink, or do we turn?
Science tells of solitude in a
ringing, churning meadowbrook,
that sings and calls and
dances, but stays ever still
in the eye of
man

Or are we true?
The iris of life is that of
another life entirely,
but somewhere within lies the truth
of perception,
and somewhere without lies that same truth,
soaring, no,
floating off into a dying
summer’s breeze