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The Time of Your Life |
Somewhere the sound of the ‘tick’
and the ‘tock’ can be heard.
The snapping teeth, the laws of movement,
the metal grind
enslaved into your own lifetime:
hours have their hands in chains.
To look into a mirror and witness
dying moonbeams sing such sad songs;
pass away unnoticed and are forever gone.
Disappeared into an unnerving
brittle silence, a creeping whiteness
that has no sound.
Erratic ebb and flow of agitated breathing
crashes the baseline
when a nihilistic heart beat whispers its slow rhythm
and all you hear are lamentations of your name
carved in marble; bound by ivy
to cemetery solemnity.
The face on the clock; deceitful smile.
Time is not on your side.
In youth,
gloriole of star bursts silhouetted the romantic
but now the unbuttoned moon
has snuffed out her starry glints,
and you, embellished by facet fascinations,
have false hopes blunted
by cut paste immitations.
Sing along to the choir
that levitates above your head
gravity defying.
The heavy hours. Weight. Waiting
for the veiled kiss
of the charnel house dreamers.
Something blue: your lips.
Something borrowed: happy ever–afters.
Somewhere the sound of the ‘tick’
and the ‘tock’ can be heard,
fixed on a loop under a glass domed coffin.
copyright 2008
P.A.
Levy |
