Living Rock

We must become our dads.
It's written in our genes
Upon the elasticated waist of time.
Our children are our near-rhymes;
Our sons and daughters,
Our sins of laughter,
An ancient echo alive in a river
Cutting through a canyon,
Carving a wasteland
From living rock.

Blank Page

The Sun is an Etch a Sketch
(for those of a certain age)
Wiping clean the Night's work
And leaving all a blank page