Clocks unceasing in their stomp on minutes
Crushes past into fragrancies of memories,
Stains, sometimes rather bloody, on that long wall of time
Where graffiti smudge lays out histories.
Thereon must one depend for personal verities,
Those pinnacles of horror and delight
That punctuate black night hours where sleep
Evades, scents of alternate possibility erode blight.
Age washes time, shrinks, creases duration.
Decades diminish, weeks move to minor momentary pauses,
Familiar faces fade, odd faint colorations on distant surfaces.
And some, mere ghost sensations, recede to foggy gauzes.
Obituaries, one by one, cast artists, writers, actors, politicians,
Into history’s jumble of the discarded, the soon to be forgot.
Smirks on what they really were scrub reputations down to size.
The world that was becomes that which was not.
Ties that bound us into conformity
Waste away, fray to loosened bonds
To freedoms frightening, disarrayed, disconnected,
Leaving one with meaningless responds.
So the present, like a paper page of history
Floats down the rushing time stream
In whirling meaningless uncompassed misdirection
Towards that final dreamless dream.