Circling Earth circling Sun
Circling Moon circling Earth
Days cycling within Months
Months cycling within Years
Wheel within wheel within wheel
Sphere within sphere within sphere

And a day is a day in every sphere
Their shadows of which on Earth
As Days, Months, and, Years
Life's inescapable rhythm ingrained
In Man, Beasts, Bugs, and Herbs
But only in Man do we count

In joy and sorrow we feel it passed
Fearful and hopeful all in ignorance
For Time's beyond Man's wisdom
Though they speak, a threefold echo
Each revealing, each foreshadowing
For on Earth as it is in Heaven

Yet Wonderful as it is, it shall pass
We know, for all Earth's given a Sign
A count, an unnatural cycle of Sevens
Of Seven Days, Months, and Years
The Seventh of Each, is a Rest
An Eternal Rest, An Everlasting Peace

Pondering What is Time, the Master of Time
Pointed to the Sabbath, and Ezekiel's Wheels

nineteen years,
238 months,
1,034 weeks,
7,238 days,
of my life.

i can compress my existence
into numbers.
lay them out like statistics.

tell people i am made of days, hours, minutes.

numbers.
they are easy.
finite.
simple.

but will i ever be able to translate my existence in words?

will i ever be able to speak such complexities?
or only count?

waiting for months to pass
and then, i’m blue
and am labeled ungrateful.
waiting for months to turn to dust
in my rusty palms
to set straight my wonky emotions
to soothe my ferocious oceans.
counting days till my cage is opened
reciting rhymes until i come back to life.
waiting for months to disappear
become marks on the calendar
can’t wait for this year to be over.
waiting for these months to stop dragging
my laden feet
upon the creaky floorboards
resisting the torture.
waiting for the months to surrender
to the year’s higher rule
succumb to the power.
waiting for these months to blow by
to relocate out of my eye view
to package up and leave.

i can’t endure these months anymore

the days won’t slow
the nights won’t drag
they move too quickly
it’s all too fast

i’ve always hated august
her grip
on my arm
her drinks
in my bar
her laughs
so far
away
but i hear them
echoing off the walls
of the barn
in this particular
part
of the season.
it’s starting to
feel like treason.
i give so much love
lying in
summer’s arms
i hold her like
a three million
dollar diamond ring
and i give her everything.
she leaves me broken
and shattered
likewise the mad hatter
and i collect her
fragments like a good
little child.
a good little
disciplined child.
she discards the wild
in me,
although i
keep
her summer breeze
alive.

i’ve always hated august
the anticipation that
comes along with her
heated embrace
her clammy hands
on my face
she wants to be
a motherly figure
to take my mother’s
place, but she’s
just too forceful
not merciful
enough.
i want a refund
for all the
money i spent for
her
to keep loving
me,
but she lets me go
like i’m some
contagious cold
that only wants to
keep you close
so
it can give you
the most sniffles.

i’ve always hated august
her savage remarks
how she gets so dark
when i just want to
feel her presence
at eight o’clock.
she’s always busy
getting wasted,
her neglecting
so shameless,
she shoos me away
like a poor peasant
begging
at her feet.
the actions she
never apologizes
for,
she adores seeing
her
tanning children
suffer,
cry their brains open
since they have
no hope
and
no happiness.

i’ve always hated august
cause it always
seems
like she hates
me.
i wish we had
a better relationship
but she’s always made
my life a living
shipwreck,
again, i am beached.

Another day.
Another week.
Another month.
Another year.
I fear the speed of time.
I fear that as the days blur into weeks, and the weeks blur into months and the months into years… that I will lose all knowledge of who I am, and why I am here.
Time doesn’t stop.
Time doesn’t slow.
It just continues on.
Time continues on with no care.
Time doesn’t see who it hurts and who it leaves behind.
Time just simply fades from days,
to weeks,
to months,
and to years.
I fear Time, but not because of its power, no, but because of its speed, and it’s carelessness.
Everything that Time touches withers away.
Every movement it makes is reckless.
Time is not graceful.
Time is not kind.
Time is a vengeful, and angry God.
Time does not care or love.
Time continues on.
I fear that before I know it, Time will take me.
Can you here the ticking of the clock?
Can you feel the breeze as Time rushes past you, pushing you further away from what you once knew?
Days turn into weeks.
Weeks into months,
And months into years.
This is everything I fear.

You used to say my eyes were beautiful right before
splitting me open, groin to gullet.

(Do you still think I’m pretty, baby? Don’t you wanna tell me how
sober I look? Don’t you miss my mouth?)

Eyes wide shut, I watched April disappear in a
blur of bite-sized catatonia.

(Tell me how good I feel. Don’t you miss my blood
on your sheets? Pin my arms back, baby, just for old time’s sake.)

The last time I saw you, you avoided my gaze.
I was lucid for that much.

(Oh, I know you can’t help yourself, baby.)

Tell me again how beautiful my eyes are, love.
We both know how much I like it rough.

I, no more
count years
in new year's eve,
I, count years
in birthdays,
your birthdays.
Not speaking for months,
then,
a happy birthday
and a new roller coaster
begins

The cold hands of January
grasp at February’s promise,
the warmth of March
always just out of reach.

You rub my shoulders,
kiss away the ache
as April continues her rain
over gentle, submissive May.

We sing the song of the whippoorwill,
its haunting anthem spilling
out across the valley floor
when June gives in to July

and August crowns the summer sky.
September will leave
when the colors bleed,
October betrayed by the coming frost.

What will you do
when November comes,
when ice and pain
move in to claim my breath?

Comfort me.
Smile with me.
Lie to me.
Tell me there is no December.

Day and night
Night and day
Keep on going
It's just been two days

Count in weeks.
Why not months ?
Because it's been long....
Since we last talked

Winter’s early months,
Carries a solemn sound,
Paired bitter fragrance,
Filled the vacant soul,
Think soley of biting frosts.

Winter’s middle months,
Assemble a bird’s tune,
Matching candied scents,
Known of lining mind,
Broods of woeful age.

Winter’s late months,
Carts a vivid air,
Coupled **** savored,
Divines the untold echo,
Fashions a taper edge.