Saturday, May 14, 2011

The Clock

i could sing a song for your mother,
i cannot do much else,
i could lift your head to the boiling sun,
but you could do that yourself,
and i wish your dead eyes kept still,
if only your breath would drown in hysteria,
and shadows crawl along the edges,
waiting for you to sit down again and resolve,
to eat you up and spit you out,
down the tunnels obsolete and the echoes incomplete,
shouting strings of filth at the faces of those who you repulse,
and strangers glance at the reckless might of lunacy,
with the contempt of the plain man cracking on the jowls and the sneer,
how wise could the living be,for all of meaning will perish with death,
and the only change life will recieve, is the freedom from the physical,
evolution,to give rise to the power of the mind,
where the conscience will cease to exist with all consciousness,
and the mind will be more than matter,
control,the manipulation of words to the hypnotising rhythm,
the noise,the sound,the melody,
the splaying ink of unrest and tragic memories,
the cure for physical maladies,being the art of suffering,
where death is monotonous enough to appear again,
salvation,the dying man,would call him,
rather than the relief that one see's and would believe in finding "god",
believe that nothing will save you,
have faith in life running short,
and understand the essence of time that is so difficult to divide within yourself,
though the clock runs as swiftly ,
following the sun to make its mark upon our lives,
should we give in our wills to the ticking of a dull pair of hands,
moving in circles,hollowing in me,tick-tocking all around me,
lustful fantasies flying down those dark and empty corridors,
like ghosts of a false fairy tale,
where the heart wallows in selfish content,
leave this man alone,leave this love alone,this mindless addiction,
this strand of dark hair left behind in an ugly twirl,
this face of a man imprinted on the skin of the sky,
the power of god,existing in the listless names of unseen rarities,
the eye,again,is a wonderful testament to this profound proclamation,
where does it not decieve the mind of its truthful amenities,
bearing witness in silence but for the quaking and shuddering rasps of understanding,
oh how the body mocks the presence of understanding!
but hear the clock resounding still,
you have not forgotten everything yet,
time does not stand still but only the moments lost,
nothing is significant but,
death is the divide,
the bridge between the time of birth and the life of many choices made,
the past and the present are ominous as ever,
sparkling bright with prospects for those who have calculated thus far,
 and the clock remains as it were,
moving forever,
along the sun,
around the universe,
and dead around me.