Of Sheepish Times.

My dear, may I ask you the time?
It seems that the friendly sheep have lied;
they are too pre-occupied with porcelain butter knives.
I do believe that the sheep have led me astray.
Away from a steady pace, into a stand still.

It is a scary thought to be trapped in the evening,
In purgatory between the sun and the ghost of a moon.
Bringing back memories of sunny days and moonlit nights.
Blue skies never to be traded,
exhaustion there to gouge out eyes.

Standing on railway tracks has never felt safer.
There were never on time, only for tea.
Although it does seem that they, too, are stuck in time.
Nowhere to be can defeat one's purpose.
Makes one feel useless.

My dear, may I ask you the time?
It seems that the friendly sheep have lied,
They are too pre-occupied with a poet who can rhyme with an orange.
I do believe that I am merely dreaming.
This is nothing more than a nightmare.