Epoch

The Clock ticks as though it holds some authority still,

Now reduced to desperate, meaningless, meandering endeavors while I sit

And wait.

Relentless life continues to buzz, to need, to consume,

But the spark that once was housed here, with determination, sleeps

And I wait.

Colours bleach indiscriminately and leave bitter taste,

Vices remain untarnished in their appeal and subtle truths,

And they wait.

And wait,

And wait,

For me.

A sound, memory, a tug from expanse long forgotten,

Lost voices cry out and they remind, they urge their own recall,

And they cry.

And wait,

And cry,

For me.

I remember feeling part, with the weight of emotion,

Of controlled and rationed, joyous ephemera, but I ache,

And I bleed.

And they bleed,

We bleed.

Re-birth is ruled by no master, let alone strength of mine,

Its womb is omnipotent to demands, its teeth sharp enough to graze my grey soul

But I will not bow,

I can wait,

I must wait,

I will wait.