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:
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?