Time is the enemy of the unenlightened.
When immersed in smoke and verse, I am
all ages and all times.
Words illuminate me as my mind is
crushed to coal.
(Coal is more useful than diamonds.
See? I'm enlightened.)
In the great chasm of the Inky Alone,
I am home.
I am beyond the constraints of the
clock and the shock of age.
Then again, there are no mirrors in
enlightenment.
There are no facial lines to shout “You
drink too much. You smoke too much. You write too much. You eat too
much. You waste too much. You sleep too much. You forget too much.”
Perhaps the mirrors count the minutes
too much.
They only see the fun in the moments
before departure,
Before wine turns sexy into sloppy,
Before smiles are worn so heavy, what
can they be but frowns?
They reflect only fleeting grins of “Do
I still look good? Am I still happy? Am I still the center? Do I
still hold?”
If I'm one of the unenlightened, I'm
far too dark,
And far too doomed.
But the doomed don't count the minutes
either.
To them, time is just another game in
the shadows,
And everyone knows shadows have the
best rules:
None.
We are so enlightened, aren't we?
We are so deep.
How could time's tick ever touch us?
Even in the dark,
Even in the false, humming light,
How could it ever touch our oh so
sensitive bones?
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