Tick, tick, tick, tick, the seconds lick by like caliburs rotating in a loading gun . . . For hours, I am waiting, for days, going on years, I wait, because what else can I do? They have taken all of my power, to break me, like a beast.
I shall not be brokend, hall not let them rip the very soul from within, tick, tick, tick, tick. I no longer respect my homeland, the standards that had made it great, taken, like the most precious of stones sometime in the night, while we were all sleeping in a stupor of apathy and self-indulgence.
Tick, tick, tick, tick, I listen as freedom slowly ticks away, second by second, to men of Napoleonic egoes, thinking they know best, forgetting one's forefather fortuned by bootlegging, another, working in a mail room.
Tick, tick, tick, tick day by day OUR greatness slips one more rung.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
While Waiting
Y sings ballads, his voice travels a considerable distance, a slowly cooling air, the snare drum reverberates under it. He is proud. I can tell by his volume. Then suddenly, his voice stopas and a clutter of speaking voices stuccato through the void, only to fade silent as well.
It wants to be winter, today, but something is preventing it, latitude, proximity, forces unseen but always known, ever experienced.
I am comfortable in the contradictions, comfortable in duplicity.
"Hush," my mind tells me, for it knows these are things insolvable, tihings better not to revel about. But Lord knows, one has to think, contemplate something beyond self, office and manmade sorts of things.
It wants to be winter, today, but something is preventing it, latitude, proximity, forces unseen but always known, ever experienced.
I am comfortable in the contradictions, comfortable in duplicity.
"Hush," my mind tells me, for it knows these are things insolvable, tihings better not to revel about. But Lord knows, one has to think, contemplate something beyond self, office and manmade sorts of things.
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