Time

Different ages, different people,

Time, they claim, is the ever-spinning spindle,

Weaving new material without a thought,

Producing a valid freshness to each.

I let them have their fantasy,

I allow them their ignorance,

False words falling to the masses,

While I draw the realization

With a broken pen.

 

Time is just a title

For the unspoken process

Of old rugged bones,

Weary and worn,

Wallowing in different flesh.

The bones carry the soul,

The soul carries the scars

And the scars are tangled

Into great knots,

Pulling the whole equation down.

We have reached an age of

Completed wryness,

One growing for centuries

Like the vicious tumor

We chose to ignore.

 

Ignore it now?

Even the simplest minds cannot.

Open murder,

Rape,

Incest in the streets,

All know it, all cannot ignore it,

But a few of us look deeper,

And we find this wry weariness

To the very core of the very bone.

We see it through the looking glass,

We see it as our own right arms,

See it in the deadly, perfect smog

As it taints the blue, the pure,

See it in the wastelands

Where schools stood,

Where life sang,

Where music was lived.

And we hear it as well.

Listen close and you can hear

The wrinkles of time

Speak with the continuous

Police sirens,

With the turning of car wheels,

With the cracks on sidewalks,

With the laughter of aristocrats

Who only wear joy,

But never taste it,

With the voice of child

Pondering self-destruction

Without pondering life.

We are weary,

We are tired,

Our sorrows

Are the shackles 

Eating away

Every soul.

We yearn

For the Great Sleep.

 

Different ages, different people,

Time, they claim, is the ever-spinning spindle,

Weaving new material without a thought

I let them have their fantasy,

I allow them their ignorance,

False words falling to the masses,

While I draw the realization

With a broken pen.

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Tell me what you guys think

Reviews

[Poetry Road]

I really like this. It unfolds well and has great insight beyond your years. Love these lines:

Time is just a title
For the unspoken process
Of old rugged bones,
Weary and worn