No Sense in Self Worth

At the Ending of the Clock The dissolution of wish and dream Lost the last great exodus And falls the Wanderer, unredeemed On the occasion of thin semblance of slumber Continued the waxing and waning and relay of tides Failing rotation, obsolete tradition Repetition, devoid of meaning, within a Sepulcher Of lies Frozen tenebrous frames Shelter grey photographs of Long forgotten places That exist no longer in memory, In structure, or in shapeless spaces Not in location, text, or in whimsical mind The illusion of Life projected only by deliberate glacier of Time Has swallowed these and their origin, all Dust and fading print strewn and hung in empty halls In melting tomb, unfeeling, thawing Disremembered forgetful hands without purpose, clawing Decaying 'neath cracked unclean panes Decades to centuries toil to fade Unquiet spirits smear, discolor, and stain Bitter and brittle and become Unmade