Seconds and Melancholy
What is time but
Seconds and melancholy.
Every marked wall,
And every ticking clock.
Four-point-six billion years, three minutes, one moment:
And each stone worn down by the passing of days
And nights, months, years.
How do you measure the weight of lasting if the wear in your words
Ceases--
Decreases--
No blemish or hint of fatigue lining your face?
You seek phrases they cannot speak and pictures they cannot see,
Vibrantly painting a scene never acknowledged by light nor reason.
Endlessly searching for one thing, just one, that would never tire you.
Bound by the cords of time,
The future is limitless.
Pointless.
The outside is flawless,
And the inside so twisted and mangled that the splash of crimson on this marble
Sings symphonies.
You regard it as icily as the sound of your cracking heart.
But this is not what I hear…
I hear the sound of warmth. Beneath the ice there is something else,
A sunrise, where sunlight never touched, and wild roses
Blooming fragrantly in Elysian meadows.
The sound of waves, the sound of days that tinkered by
Leaving traces of melancholy dreams once realized
And then forgotten.
What is time but
Seconds and melancholy.
Every marked wall,
And every ticking clock.
Four-point-six billion years, three minutes, one moment:
And each stone worn down by the passing of days
And nights, months, years.
How do you measure the weight of lasting if the wear in your words
Ceases--
Decreases--
No blemish or hint of fatigue lining your face?
You seek phrases they cannot speak and pictures they cannot see,
Vibrantly painting a scene never acknowledged by light nor reason.
Endlessly searching for one thing, just one, that would never tire you.
Bound by the cords of time,
The future is limitless.
Pointless.
The outside is flawless,
And the inside so twisted and mangled that the splash of crimson on this marble
Sings symphonies.
You regard it as icily as the sound of your cracking heart.
But this is not what I hear…
I hear the sound of warmth. Beneath the ice there is something else,
A sunrise, where sunlight never touched, and wild roses
Blooming fragrantly in Elysian meadows.
The sound of waves, the sound of days that tinkered by
Leaving traces of melancholy dreams once realized
And then forgotten.
