Centuries are days to me—
I keep them hidden
In the hollow of my hand.

Cavorting with the stars,
I have no need for sorrow
Or regret for what has passed.

My coat is many-coloured;
You think yourselves the weavers,
You who are a single strand.

I grow by drastic means,
Changing from within
And shattering your plans.

Nor will I turn tame
Until the sun grows senile,
Relinquishing its flame.

©2017 Michael Fraley

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