Clock de Borges does not tick
Rather keeps pace by dripping candle wax
Through the birthing and the dying of the sun
Called dawn and respectively sunset.
These mark the realms of the worlds
Existing in this Phoenix cycle of creation.
Night, as we say, with its muted shadows
Reveals with it's fears of the unknown,
Also the possibilities of who we might be,
If all the barriers were laid aside
And all believed obstacles presented
Were hidden out of our hopeful thoughts' sight,
Allowing dreams to materialize as permanent ideas,
The world of the almost, could be, beautiful future.
Day, as we say, harsh in it's brightness
Illuminates a harder reality, more fixed, set,
Not transcending but transvexed, challenging
Each step, each deed, each word in combat,
Plagued with the returning visions of who we were.
Making the past an overcoat of weak armor,
Slowing down inspiration and response.
Yet this world of fault and failure seems more tangible.
Here in these two worlds of alternating time
He lives and would have us abide also,
Tangled between the tangible and the almost obtained.
Duel citizens of vexed thoughts, ideas, and realities,
Not measured in twelves of purpose
But in the giving and taking of light,
Extended externally and internally,
Lighting or shadowing existence amide duel creations
Painting our lives, surrealistically in varying shades
Of melting watches and meandering verses
Alone in our quest for philosophy and reason.