Time’s sour.

That bell upon the half hour,

Rings once my half-made hour,

Half made and troubled gone;

Half dealt with anything done.

My mind draws me elsewhere,

Upon the spirits dark who dare

Nothing for my good ascention,

Nothing to my good and just intention.

I play the schemes possible,

Regret the absolute unwantable,

Then curse my lost wayfaring;

My lost time, my good sense caring.

It slips gently more and more stranger,

Time like sand coursing through every finger.

The feeling of time’s lost half hour,

Bitter taste on my good sense, it’s sour.