The
ticking keeps beat,
Every
hour, every day,
A
mark of its past,
Prelude
to futures
Of
infinite directions
Spiraling
to a single point.
There
are branches along the way,
They
are blocked.
There
are deviations in the path,
They
are blocked.
There
is a single path in the road
Bearing
straight towards the horizon.
It
has been forgotten.
Where
are all those uncounted
Moments
never forged, never sung,
Never
born? No gravestone for
The
lost. How could
Those
have a marker?
It
lumbers forward,
We
follow.
It
does not falter,
We
follow.
A
momentary glance back
The
ticking cannot accept,
And
drags, kicking and
Screaming,
its host along
The path is has
marked ahead.
