Wrenched time out of mind,
And onto the pleading lips.
Pleading to history and time for a reasonable
Punishment.
Bracing his circumstance, he finds comfort in lack of comfort.
He secures his security in insecurity.
Placing his standard in the filtering sand,
Holding fast to his colors, bracing against raging silk string,
As his face and hair blur
into the trailing wake of his future, his dying friends,
His lost cloud of love and knowledge,
his neighborhood of warmth and
aroma.
His trainéd mind and imprisoned hands, fumble
for the lever, the simple machine,
the illumination of some kind of life.
And the swell of shadow over expectation,
The acknowledged need
to slowly spill,
To pass on the love that dwelt so well,
So dear, some rich and dense desire,
The heart brimming full
as an unused well. Ink to set the spell
of stories, dark and wonderful.
-Man, yet to be out of time.
