What Time Is It?

WHAT TIME IS IT? A shadow crosses my mind And stops. An old familiar figure Sent to me in this place From memories Long ago forgotten. A lonely basket Of a girl with no age In a room crying the long, Hollow tears of some Deep and dolorous sorrow. Infinite and wide — A million years of Reflections of relics — Stone slab burdens Rush at me, draw me. I go to her and touch her sleeve. Deliberate, slow — She turns to reveal me a face And I’m slammed and assaulted; Helpless to know my Barest mirror. A contorting face, Dizzying in its madman Slide show of pains, Featured frame after frame Of hurts hooked to hurt Played on a wall Whose eyes streamed Rivers of tears. Too much, too much — It held me idiot captive, a Helpless prisoner of her face. Feet hammered and secured By Christ stakes, I stood root of the earth — A neglected garden’s Tough old abandoned beet. Weighing of Everest rock times three. Knowing the tears, I lived again each memory Through her face, Becoming carrier and bearer As they wormed back inside, Claiming me owner and Demanding response. The eyes lost me And absorbed me: They swallowed me up inside, Jolting God-strong currents of scare Straight through me — Their wide sadness of hope Too needy of reassurance. Tethering sour screams within me, I set to take leave of this place — Longing to be star once more Of my ten-thousand scenes, Performer again in safe, cloaked And hooded acts called Normalcy. I left her as she was, Gifting no promise or pact — My own eyes closed to her difference — I moved to go back to my theater, Running far, far away.