De-oxygenated and stale
There is the smell of stillness;
Only now is it clear,
These are dreams in death.
I lie in wait, each synopsis- slower
Will, once I am gone, time stow these captions
In an envelope....?
No. Time has no purpose but to march dutifully on
For the next life to appease,
Document.... and radiate.
A millenia before me, there was nothing
No sign of my 'coming'
...and once I'm lain to rest,
All pockets will be emptied and washed
Waiting for the warm change of another.
I am a locust at times, to myself-
A plague of the ages
Eating away at the heels
The quicksand of today.
...and like Time, I too- am dutifully bound...
To forever remind and resemble in thought
That pissing away these delicate seconds
As they form the hours of who I am
...and the way I am living...
Must be whispered in cantata-like form
To arouse a gentle persuasion
That before I dimple further and
Skin shies from want of touch-
I should touch and be touched
While there is yet,
A kindling in the eyes.
Dormant days I have kept
Slagging away at my delicate needs
I shall make up for lost time
Once my mind sets free the notion
Hoping too at some point-
That without effort,
The drapes of circumstance will part without warning
Introducing new life into emptied, echoing halls
Where wings long flutter,
Yet seldom are heard.