Marking time

What is it at the end of day

that, left unsaid, rankles 

at being unwritten 

or unpainted? 

To know that

one day, 

when the end has ended,

it will never, ever, be said.

The realisation that no mark

can be left to mark 

that you were here at all.

Because, if all the marks 

that you have left

are not seen, 

or if seen neglected,

then why strive to leave that mark,

another in the line of marks neglected?

There is nothing in the lichen crusted epitaphs,

upon the tombstones laid repetitiously,

that will cut the mirrors of eternity,

on which we so seek to scratch 

our mark in perpetuity.

Alone in this contemplation,

the artist, poet, pen,

in the alchemy of ages striven 

to divest their fingerprint or iris scan, 

upon the slippery tides of man.

Or does the genie draw back

into the smoked bottle corked,

to lay in a dusty secret nook

cobwebbed asleep

never to be rubbed again?

For there is no chisel blow

that can wrest asunder,

or decipher the enigma,

the illegibility of

benediction when

the impotence of ego id, 

for marking time is ended,

and the tears flow

until