Hands and Numbers

And then, morning was gone
No swan song
No prior indication that something was wrong

Fatal indignation at misspent moment
Distant component composed beneath quill of Cronos
Who among us can defy such brinkmanship?

Wings clipped with slightest slip twixt cup and lip
Whitest tip of spring snowdrop
Stopped by flip flop seasons
clipping crops as mercury drops

And yet, we measure this madness
Register sadness against yard stick of grief
Gladness swells and fades
as time evades any trick to hold it back

Thick black smoke envelopes future
History neutered by disputes about
what really happened
Does a mystery exist if we are not present to question why?
Time cannot be defied, defiled or denied
in spite of what pride would have us think

Back to the brink, further to think upon these things
Sinking slowly into sea of ink
A wink to old Cronos
He blinks, coldly disowns us
Takes trinkets, dethrones us
Reclaims animal vessel loaned to us
Consciousness dissipates
Ash to ash
Dust to dust

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