i sometimes find myself
thinking about time
and its ability to shrink me
to a singularity in space
and remind me of my unimportance
my insignificance in the face of
a marching army intent
on mowing me down
and splashing their leather boots
in the puddles of my blood
that runs through the fields
and waters the crops
takes a part of me to nourish
from east coast to west coast
to the heartland
and beyond the sea

sometimes i think about
how time takes history
into its sanguinely stained mouth
silver spoon held gingerly
in a vice grip in the
hand of a grandfather that
knows all my secrets
and my shame
he swallows them
masticated to a grey mass
whose form has been lost
an amorphous ball of
unspeakable words and
dreams that had until recently
lived in the pit of my stomach
burrowing into my bowels
trying desperately to escape
to break free from the misty world
of 'if's and 'maybes'
of 'hope'
of reckless abandon

if the words escaped
somehow
the infinite gravity of
time's death grip
could the blind masses comprehend them?
gathered around the
burning wreckage of that
shooting star that fell
from the wide open
obsidian sky
they speak
but they do not understand
they hear
but they do not listen
and my dream
my desperate words that
condensed until they both
imploded into a vitreous glass
of transparent delusion
and exploded to burn
and consume the world that
they have neglected
as they gather around
my message
and their own Tower of Babel
where they've lost their words.