OF THE FRAMEWORK OF TIME
The framework of time, like an elegy,
runs to its edges and darkness - sidling
past the luminescence around us and diving
deep into the innards of those dark, black hearts.
The kind of conscience a murderer has,
the kind which never sees parole nor even
the light of day. Dark recesses where the
power-bombs reside. Words brushed off like dirt.
Remorse bears its gloom like a curtain -
a wave where the wind blows through it,
a shadow perfected by contrast, a dark -
embittered like the ancient night sky.
Five red cards were on the table,
each one bearing a different face.
On the back of each, though blurry
and faint, was a different legend to
match each number - 3 for death,
5 for the maiden, and a 7 for (merely)
'good luck'. It was all that and
nothing more. I'd grown tired of
playing and heaved them all to the floor.
No comments:
Post a Comment