Sunday, 27 August 2017

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


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