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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.