I scroll
mad missives
to the world

I rage against the good night
waging a farcical fight--against chronos,
its mechanical machinations

without these spinning spell
breakers, would the moon and the stars
be my finite measure?

****** if I know,
though I am compelled to write a history
of which I am a clockwork part

as if its epilogue applies to all but me,
denying me the curse to see, a winding down
of the great spring,

a coil well disguised--its tension
measured miserly, by ticks and tones
I hear but will never comprehend