All clocks have stopped their thrumming,
    The creatures slink across the threads of redness,
    Not enough violins, too much violence
    Breathing to the drum of our failing love.

    This; our dust, is not settling as it should,
    Coating the skies with the scourge of loathing,
    Placing the truth lower than the ashen claws of discourse,
    Opening the metal gate to blindness and dismay.

    Time is not needed at present; it’s ticking, deaf
    To our tally, unheard prayers radiating,
    Pouring over the shadowy oceans and seas,
    Clocks without hands... or anything worth keeping.

The old man asked if air weighed more than gold,
if truth held sway over deceit, the last time I knew who I was,
recognized myself for me, not as a tool of greed,
but who I am; my truth, my love, my hope, my laughter.

I considered my obligations as a warrior,
a father, a brother, a son and a man… judge, jury
and executioner… Lift my spirit in laughter and love,
bring me to my knees beneath heaven’s beam;

I’m weighing my answers like a ******,
one eye upon the scope, the other, my motive.
Man and mankind, far from home, carrying out plans,
half duty, half flesh, standing bone-deep to my waist,
the exactness of a worship I cannot recognize as good.

In the bony sand, the original cradle embracing me,
kissing my eyes with wet lips, my ears with truth,
my body, with the throbbing of a most private flesh;
a forlorn inhalation stains my finest hour.

The old man extends his arms for me to enter...
or shatter. The choice is mine.