Wound hands tick neither fast nor slow
Moments bubble and recede with seen inevitability
Splashing the decks of my rational being
On and on the tock will flow endless as all can be
I am a mere steerage passenger on this grand voyage
Alone in the realization that time stands tall
Dividing experience into corrugated half truths
The fruits still spill in the evening chorus of calamity
That confronts such a listless vessel
Every morning may rise with a mist
Carved with swollen eyes the sun will set
Judged to be joyless this existence traces circular
Around and around I absentmindedly foil the pockets
Those soggy instants of self-taught harmonization
That drop actualized thought beneath the layer time.
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