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 Lackluster
hour
hand,
colliding
midnight.
Time
stands still;
stationary;
unswerving
protest.
Kill
the rhyme
transform
lyrics
to
the coarse sound,
tumbling
gravel
released
from its cradle.
Every
bend around the mountain
shields
the barren slopes of the last.
Promised
fountains of youth
destroyed
by each new blast.
Fairy
tale endings
lost
in their telling;
fragmented-figment
of
some
soul's meanderings.
Handed
down one generation to another
propagation,
ever
changing.
Temporal
derision,
lost
means,
illusion
ends.
Plea
bargaining,
leave
it to the court room.
Tacit
form of judgment.
A
game of Dungeons and Dragons.
The
master watches from his lair,
hollow
bellow
"Present
your case".
Freeze
frame;
under
the alcove,
above
the abyss,
clear
skies overhead;
misty
bridge across,
black
void below,
mother
time in front - walk or hold.
I've
lead so far,
played
paternal guide,
ventured
into unknown realms.
Each
time a hesitant follower,
back-stepping
and prodding.
There's
little left now
least
we fall into disarray
and
the crusade fails.
The
acrimonious bang of the gavel.
Swaying
bridge, cantankerous undulation.
The
dragons roar,
the
dungeons gape yearningly.
Trepidation;
tears
of sweat.
Forward
motion
snapping
each plank
with
the wake of dawn.
Robert
Allison
03/07/85
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