A Barbaric Yawp

Short-lived Yesterdays

There is a devil on our doorstep,

He who delights in asundering us.

Ever present, he is

Digging ditches and planting reminders:

Evil seeds that split our

Very home into fearful pits

In which the near-day sits,

Lapping away our time together.

Save us, my beloved.

Never answer the door.

And if you must, let it be at night.

Morning is the devil's stomping ground and

Evening, his confine.

We shall hide there

Amongst the stars.

See us still, the devil will, but he

May not touch us.

Over dawn's breaking, we hide in the night, but

No matter how tightly our hands are clasped,

Day will come anyway

And the devil with it, booming the truth we battle:

Yesterday, once again, has slipped through our fingers.