The hatching tempest
drinks convulsively of
her voice
drowns in thunderous
wit the flimsy temptings
of his heart

Not even feathered hope
will oversummer her assail
nor provide respite from her sands

Ô, Enkindled Time...
Please! Please! Don’t forswear his shriveled ash!

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––­–

Against your snowy nape
he catches the reflection
of a withered mien
Blindfolded by the starch yet
thinking he’s enveloped by the starts
he’ll abandon his abode of solitude and freeze
and die

As every night,
when even sound’s asleep
The most terrible storms
overturn/run and take
his heartfilled eye

Forever encumbered by the window’s lie

Living is about embracing death
as though it were unique
As though death was made for living
and living for ‘em dead

So if you must disappear in some night’s distrust
remember we are made of Time, and Time is made by us

Beware!
Beware of the consequences
of what’s been deemed

Procasturbation...

Precarious pleasure
Addictive piquancy

[Oversaturation]

As Time will come
before you do

If I told you

You were born this morning
and you will die tonight

How much of your day has gone by?

Mathematically speaking,
Between this moment and the next,
there lies an infinity

My hopes prevail unfulfilled,
by those who avow
an intent to have Time killed

In some odd way we are now living out the last years
                                                           ­                          months
                                                          ­                           days
                                                            ­                         hours
                                                           ­                          minutes of our life.
How loudly the clock ticks.