Ink on a Page

My days bleed away,
ink on a page
that never really had the time to dry
I try
to reign them in
and fail completely

This is irksome, this is tragic
all this nonsense about magic
with life
fragile as an eggshell
sliding closer to the ledge

I may rail at Ozymandias,
measure loss by absent Esthers,
think of light and fading embers,
make my lists and swear I’ll get to it all someday
But my todays
slide easily into tomorrows
and I’ve no idea when they will run out

The hourglass stands,
that old Time cliche
of sands perpetually running away
Our minutes in motion,
we watch the loss
as they sift down into piles below

But where do the minutes go?
Where is my other side?
If this life’s the top, where do lost moments hide?
I want to know.
What is there to show for it,
this hollow lie?

I may rail at Ozymandias,
measure loss by absent Esthers,
think of light and fading embers,
make my lists and swear I’ll get to it all someday
But my todays
slide easily into tomorrows
and I’ve no idea when they will run out

My days bleed away—
injured badly, gaping wounds,
and I carry my awareness, an infection
festering deep within my core
I have the questions
none of us can ever answer
We just ignore the elephant
and get on with the routine every day

But I’m losing my moments
my moments and hours
I’m losing whole days
and the months melt to years
I can’t banish the fears
that my years won’t last long now
until I’m a shadow
no sand left above

They talk about love,
but then, what do they know?
And words like eternity tossed about so assuredly,
with such sincerity
(or is it lunacy?)
I can’t—and none of us can ever—be sure

So I rail at Ozymandias,
measure loss by absent Esthers,
think of lamplight and shadows and slow fading embers,
blink in January, only to discover it's December,
losing here and now to thoughts of "soon" or "I remember"—
So I make my lists and swear that
I’ll get to it all someday
But my days bleed awaybleed awaybleedaway

ink on a page