The Clock is Ticking

walking this beach,

there is a feeling of incompleteness,

restlessness,

unfinished business;

paupers,

waiting for the ax to fall,

so much suffering,

so much dying;

like a side of beef,

she leads me to this place,

selling me to the highest bidder,

giving up without a fight,

no resistance,

no struggle;

only shame;

there is a depth here,

untold symmetry,

flapping and unfurling

with the newborn sun,

words come easy,

light and free,

no longer encumbered

by stones of inertia,

shooting through the limited

nighttime sky with

a touch of innocence;

there is a depth here;

this boiling sun

is no longer a home,

this raging sea

provides no relief,

old bones come home

to roost,

the clock is ticking;

time is running out.

.

.