Time is all I have and all I do is waste it
I'm stepping on minutes like pavement
For me, there’s no living in the moment
I can’t turn time into a quotient
Because every second is the same
It's like I was here before I came
There is no such thing as death
Even when I take my last breath
I will forever live on
In blood, words, and photons

thundering trumpets
thundered through the township
tooting thunderously

The clock demands a tower, for it to look outwards
night has an absence, the key factor
bringing relevance to a lighthouse,
the nightingale infuses sweetness to night hours
for those listeners who never fancy hearing her on a day
a tall wall, a ladder and an iron cutter, perfectly
shapes a thief; there is a mysterious disorder
pointing the other way to every careful order.

The cactus flower and delicate butterfly on it,
brings to focus a certain delectable incongruence,
eternity has an eye resting on evanescence,
a scientist with a reverse cerebral process
alone can snake in to the origin of such nuances,
where hides the complex aesthetics of the 'other'
of what we are familiar, more fascinating than this
the universe that's the tip of an iceberg, hides from us
though, it exists here with all of the 'multiverse'
But who would institute a Nobel prize for 'otherness'
to shed light to the dark path, that would gift more astonishment to us

There was no grand epiphany,
no resounding overture
when the mystery was undone.

When I finally discovered for myself
the meaning of it all
there was only silence.

And I watched those around me rust,
languishing to be a spectacle
of something so tiresome and garish
as human.

I am nowhere,
Not here,
Not there,
I exist as an object,
defined by my appearance,
My mask,
I drown in my sorrows,
I weep for my fears,
Rains of painful tears,
I am not here,
Nor there.
I am empty.
I am the living dead.
-Lydia Gordon