With a nod to Audin.

With a nod to Audin.

The clock has no face

Time is an artifice

A fob watch lost

In a fog

Of misremembering

How did the world end

With so little

To commend it,

As stories undreamed

Gathered in sheaves

With every golden slumber

Wake to another

Barren harvest

The funeral cart

Is always waiting

For the departed

To be ejected

With the garbage

There is little to celebrate

In the harsh light

Of mourning

There are no birds

To sing of praise

When the cock crows

It is a warning

To be wary

Of the falsehood

Of a dawning

When a blood sky

Blankets the world

In expectation

Sorrow is a myth

That grows

More insidious

With every breath

It takes

Measured against

A stopped watch

With little chance

Of its recovery

I am lost

In the moment

Perception of movement

Paused

And time turned

Its face the other way