Passing the Time
To hold the imagination of ones
generation in the palm of a hand.
Violently squeezing the melancholia
to form an illumination
As it becomes a newsreel of heroic
times.
This is the sense that awakens
meaning in the dour small hours of ones life.
As the cat-gut stains bloody the
halls of sanity
One looks for a relenting pause
in the cessation of abilities.
And the day bears down upon ones
head.
Just as the weight of the guillotine
becomes the heaviest
It slices through the refrain sung
by the choir of the damned
Leaving the legends of ones time
in their hallowed garb.
This is the sense that instills
meaning in the dour small hours of ones life.
İGary J. Sheckells
August 14, 1998
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