Then this
must be the time,
for the clock has drawn
with its withering hands
a line in the sand and I
only a bandwidth away
from the cusp.

If only as dust I will sear your lungs
and you will spit me out with the day.

Injecting projections for
future trends
and directions
I hit the main vein
only for you to pull
out the plug and I
sink down the drain.

The same can of worms
always turns on itself
in the end.

Smoking the blues to
become my own muse
the fusions of man and
the myths.

And when the day is almost done, when
the clocks wind down the evening sun
when the shutters rise
my eyes will see the ego
and identity,
until then
I stand with other men
and melt into the crowd.