The Time Traveller's Chronoballad
time moves like worried rivulets of silver
bleeding from a clock face
curling around the numerals like a peaceless filigree
dripping slow moments with a
to the floor.
we remain bound slaves to time
our rust-burdened chains tied to the deceptively frail sweep hand
whirled about with frantic chronohurry, and little difference
between one minute and the next.
eighty-six thousand four hundred quick atomic jerks
from pinpoint to pinpoint;
we dance between the
now-here-no-where-ness, captive and forced
moving within time’s mercurial confines
a horologic rondo of waterlike madness and fire-crazed surety
jumping en pointe from minute hand to hour hand
dancers whirling like aureate cogwheels hidden behind a
of fragile simplicity.
where are we,