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VIII. In the grip of time

Harsh winter pervades even the autumn in me.

A thousandth of a second’s an eternity

like the downpour trashing my rotting cross.

The lead hand shuffles, hours beckon minutes;

plague eats away a thoughtful bachelor

as he passes on his curved walking stick.

Time, kind enemy, ripens and passes.

My dream sifts like dust, and falls on my dust

judgmental, and wind scatters the lost time.

Suffering-become-ash that once had substance,

there will never be one to keep track

of all the timeless time crammed into graves.

And I didn’t notice how long I’d drifted;

my path – a faded crow now – thrones my head.