The Invisible Man

My thoughts reflect upon the hour glass, and knowing with the bottom mostly full and darkness closer by, the thing I was supposed to do is undefined, retreating in the now descending dusk, a most sardonic eulogy, indeed, There is a cadence beating as I turn within. It echoes as the triumph's hollow drums would sound beneath the pines along the Appian way, a counterpoint to whispers that "thou art a man," a shell, a fallen leaf thrust by the wind, accountable the least of all to some inverted pride. There is a song within such turning, that is unsung, unending, like a silent god, an unobtrusive, still insistent art in parallel along the corridor I walk. It is the spectre that I also do not see. It is the consciousness I share unborn, undying, and the I-ness that I do not dare to touch. And were I then to reach for it, would you as well? And are we not dependent on the swell of every soul fulfilled... Upon the hope clean ecstasy may bring to sing at last when all the silence bursts upon us? Come, and bear with me the crashing of the sea, the fire emerging from beneath, the planets crumbling, the blackened sun--for that we shall espy within an endless cosmos of the mind that cannot calculate the way to die. ~