The Sands of Time

© 06•04•1977

I wrote this in 1977, when I was 16.  I don't remember the situation, but I remember I had been an insomniac by then for a few years, and a good amount of my writing then reflected that struggle for sleep.  I was writing a journal of poetry that year, after keeping a prose journal for the three years previous.  I have not stopped journaling both poetry and prose since then.  I think, sometimes, it was a divine gift of writing and music that helped me hang onto the tiny thread of sanity.  I still have reams of old yellowed paper, on which my life's discource was written for so many years before computers.  I upgraded to a typerwriter when "KO•REC•TYPE" was introduced (lol).  I used a lot of it. 

 

If I am gone tomorrow,

or if I live a thousand

years one day . . .

It's Saturday night,

and its droning

on and on like

the line to catch

a bus for hell.

All the angels

have fallen.

All the night

invested in death,

and I hear the bell toll.

The sands of time,

are so fucking slow,

so I break the glass

and it pours out on the

table, leaving pale

yellow smoke.

An aspect of eternity

gets me off, rock hard,

murders me, mind and soul

again and again, so

I grab the thought

tight and right to my

skin.

Visions come

and go, and forever

lays down like a friend.

The wind knows,

where to blow;

knows how I like it.

Simple pity and distress,

I watch my hand, clenched;

it  grows old, as I sit in this

place and wait for you.

I sit here in the hallway[image error]

of my own life and

the gate is still closed.

I'm  destined to stand

outside and knock at

the door to my

own reason.

Splash my face with

rock and sand, and tell

me who I am.

If I am gone tomorrow,

or if I live a thousand

years one day . . .

It's Saturday night,

and its droning

on and on like a

line to catch

a bus for hell.