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Clocked
hands steady, painting days wanning now wearing shades
of hours
clocks run blind tocs, with tics wildly lying
months lurk like monks or thugs,
deeply hooded
in a guise of weeks muttering ridiculous affirmations
to justify all the manipulative brevity
shy years sulk in remembered corners,
good for nothing but bitter resentments and petty
irrelevent grudges. the grotesque remnants of decomposing relationships- the. crumbling infrasctructure
of toxic interpersonal comnections- lie about all ovver the place,
heaps of it-hazards for the spry years sprinting swifly
by faster and faster and faster,
mostly forgotten more quckly even than their passage.
the worst,
the worst years slip just beneath aware.ness
cloaked in a horrible monotony.
Terrible, banal- the swallowers
devour decades or by dozen,
slink past to slide into the waters,
the same dark waters in which our god once moved
before time
behind life
beyond death.
our god begat the world in those waters.
the world newly brought forth and cradled in the arms
of our god
opened her eyes and gazed across the waters
reflected on the shifting tides the waves held the face of our god. The newborn world eyes opened wide, her gaze coupled with the image of our god and with the waves and water,
At this moment a moment became something that is and was and will be.
This was time.
Our god placed the newborn world balanced carefully on his shoulders, a moment there and another.
Our god had parted the waters.
He measured the waves
delineated the days
with the world brand new and balanced
on his shoulders.
Copyright ©
Megan Swell
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