Saturday, 2 April 2016

I think it's time for me to post, again.

So aptly, here's a poem of mine on time. Likewise the style of e. e. cummings, this one has no title.

We are the time-smiths,
The controllers of the hour. Fine
Spinners of silver-stained myths.

Forged upon a linear line,
And cast upon these chalkboard skies.
A single strike, undoubted, in this mine

Laced illustriously with volatile lies.
Undeterred, as mortals spawn their thoughts
Of curious desires, our illusion sighs
Once again, and resorts,

Back to the eternal enigma of which we distort.
Through dreamy abstraction and noble smiles
Our riddle is unsolved and our lessons untaught.

Enslaved to ignorance these mortals pass. Dead dials
Left motionless, though not on our watch. No.
For we understand, eventual demise is a trial;

A testament to wonder, of which we bestow
Upon our beguiling selves alone.
So primitive belongings shall set aglow,
Iron burning dead, burdened by our loan.

Aeons dawn and drown but we persist, sewn
Into a timeline of our own illusions
From which can no longer escape, unknown. 

No comments :

Post a Comment

Thanks for commenting, I'll get back to you as soon as possible!