Time Isn't Mine

Well, I think there's a time
made for mid-morning birds
when the raspberry bushes
grow fresh maroon words,
and a golden coin sits
on the crisp skyward line,
but that time fears the fire,
that time isn't mine.

And I think there's a time
to abandon sweet dreams,
so swelled with imposters
they're not what they seem,
and instead sit forgotten
in the milky moonshine,
but that time's gotten tired,
that time isn't mine.

How I wish for a time
to hold my own hand
when the birds sail along
and the shells fade to sand,
so I'll wait for the lilies
to bloom me a sign,
but that time's long expired,
that time isn't mine.

I believe there's a time
when the curtains are drawn
to beat back and turn from
your statues of dawn,
and the naked grass with
their proud tears combine,
but that time's in the mire,
that time isn't mine.

Yes, I hope there's a time
when this wasteland of leaves
gets swept to the sky
and returned to the trees,
then maybe, for a while,
our faces could align,
but that time's gone on higher,
that time isn't mine.