Ooze

When the drums come for me,
and the streaking chimes smear the sky,
I will stand silent.

When the earth is seen curving
in a long horizon across the soft,
sweepig distance of its own existence,
I will stand silent.

The strings that are self-refferential,
reverberating through sand dunes dusted
in soft moonlight, carry the tone of
a dissonant melody death march.

Across the stripped asphault,
Time oozes between the broken
fork approaching an outlet,
and the young mother resting
after the sweet gift of life.

Time oozes between the solid camera snap,
immortalizing a young man in his prime,
and the solid snap of knuckles
soon to be caked in a thick layer of arthritis.

Time oozes…
I stand silent.