Posts Tagged ‘time’

Spring is come,
I see it in the daffodils legion beside the road,
I feel it on the warmer zephyr,
My ears heed the throng leaving hibernation,
The smell of fresh grass graces my nostrils,
I taste the cordial breeze upon my tongue,
My senses can perceive the shift,

The world comes to life again,
Shaking off the frosty mantle,
Bringing its head above the snow finally,
Taking a long-awaited breath,
Its veins bearing aqua unfrozen once more,
Like an archaic blade reforged,
The world exists anew.

As this first breath of the year comes to a close,
The reverie of the years change is history,
Pangs of brainwork nip my flanks,
A delayed desire for self-improvement,
A new years resolution a touch too late,

This is a winterborn ache,
The chill of january has abated my verve,
The sleet and rain washed away my impetus,
An unwanted frozen barrier to change,
Leading me to hibernate rather than live,

January doesn’t feel new,
Just more of the same,
More winter to languish in.

On this day of all days,
When my years grow overly pointed,
A thought forces its way to the forefront,
A sharp heartbeat of reflection,
A strange method of precognition,
A outre mix of dread and optimism,

I wonder if I should fear aging,
Does it hold monstrosity for me?
Is a mans birthday a tone of a deathknell?
Or a step towards elegance?
The unstoppable tsunami that time is,
One must either float upon it or be crushed,

Does your time pass like deluges between fingers?
Or gracefully like a claret past the lips?
Do you fade to grey in a bland ward?
Or go out in a tumultuous blaze of glory?
The years are a road with an uncertain end,
Either to a gentle hearth or off a cliff.

Mankind is a race of cultural morticians,
Us and our forefathers grimly built atop the past,
Foundations made over burial grounds,
Urban ziggurats covering hovels of eld,
Peopled malls standing on the shoulders of ancients,
Their lives reduced to building material,
Desecration by another method,
Old societies forgotten for the sake of progress,

But chronology conquers all,
Even our neon lives will degrade,
An empires tempo becomes decadence,
Which heralds a demise soon after,
Our nests and families too shall become as necropoli,
Ruins for the mute ghosts of our ways,
And when our bodies and homes are dust,
Who will build atop our lives?

Do you think the year sobs?
As the terminal days come to pass,
As its tears grow frigid upon its clock face,
Dreary icicles upon its cheeks,
A funeral script upon a calendar,
Events of holly and fireplaces,
Does it fear its demise?
Or the unease of inflicting the hell on a new turn of the sun,

Or does it drool in anticipation?
A cackle heard in ticks of time,
The watch hands forming a brass grin,
The hysteria of going out with a bang,
Spectacles of flammable fetish and fireworks,
Keeping its clock face warm with a wintry tango,
A party invite upon the daybook,
Does the year long for death?

Life is a long dusty road,
We all know it in our being,
It is a foregone conclusion,
Built to test and vex,
Winding and windswept,
But it’s a road of jagged nails,
Bent and mismatched by travelers before you,
Karmic spiderwebs and societal roadblocks,

We walk it in agony,
Our boots split and feet skewered,
Each step forcing out more moans of pain,
Yet we march on,
With a pace set by our heartbeats,
Ashen-faced yet galvanized,
This serrated path cannot stop us though,
Nothing can stop us,

The end of this road is a cruel joke to some,
Our reward for our torment,
I fear there is naught but a red sun,
And a doting incinerator at the end,
Yet we march on,
Life trundles on,
Nails cannot break our spirits.

I’ve been traversing this rocky road for eons,
Strewn with the dirt of life choices,
And stones of detritus from those same choices,
Cane in gloved hand,
Occasionally with a travel compatriot,
Often alone,

Along the stones,

Many of these travellers walk hand-in-hand with me,
Sharing grand times and raised-hand toasts,
Becoming lovers and allies and mentors,
Others have kicked me in the shins,
Robbing me of every positive emotion I dare felt,
Leaving me lamenting by the side of the road,

Along the stones,

Each step taken is a year,
I may stumble at times,
Sprint at others,
But I am bound to this endless trail regardless,
Like a train tied to a track,
A slave to time unending,

Along the worn stones.

Time oversees us all,
Within its hourglass booth,
Like a tiger unable to maul,
With fangs of sand,

We cannot escape it,
We are leashed to it,
Our bodies wilt and rot,
As the sand falls unquestioned,

The hourglass stands tall,
Upon an iron podium,
Like a dictator,
With gravity a willing sycophant,

A true oligarch,
This Father Time,
Emotionless and unrelenting,
Fists of platinum wearing us down,

And as the sand falls,
We shall fall too,
Into gaping graves,
Such is the edict of time.

A broken soul,
Staring at these four walls,
I notice the ticking,
Incessant tapping,
Rattling my brain,
An unwanted roommate,

The clockwork prophet ever works,
It is the keeper of time after all,
Chronos incarnate,
A trickster of sorts,
Revealing the future,
Or perhaps revealing what we wish to see,

The clock reads the time,
But does it ever skip a few pages,
Does it know what’s coming?
But when questioned,
It responds only in ticks,
For its own amusement perhaps,

Time is fair so they say,
Like fate,
What happens will happen,
What will be will be,
Everyone follows the same chronology,
But we don’t all perceive it as such,

For some,
The time comes too soon,
For others,
It comes far too late,
The eleventh hour,
But one thing is certain,

The end will come regardless of the time,
The clockwork prophet on the desk told me so.