Among the cool dew of black finitude,
Of deaths perpetual Being,
Stands Time beyond the cycle of life
Amidst the womb of mind.
Time, in life ever lived,
Flowed foundries of punctured flesh.
Atop thine headless stump sprung blood of bygone days.
Tis crimson life of Times design.
Thick, its breast, beyond the chisel of man
Of bronze it emits, by heaven’s design.
Below its supple bosom, slick,
Its slender core, chiseled through watered sands
Of oceans shore.
Of its bow, betwixt thine thighs of withered age, its furry tongue
Of one, a youth day.
Below, it swings, a shriveled worm
Shooting blood, that once was sperm.
Withered, its ‘arse in rot,
By impulsive defecation.
Down its dry shank of ruptured lobes,
Green slime it spurts through oozing sores.
Of Time in hand, now slipping away,
Beyond the flesh of warmth,
Now damned and cold.
Brittle its skull below thy legs.
Lying alone, among the land,
Where worms now feast along the dirt.
Of anatomies time
Tis now to cease.
Where once a joy,
In perfection it was.
In reflection below, the crippling of man.
Now under thine feet it,
In agony it died.
The crown of man, now rot by life.
So, is the anatomy of Time.