Winter is Time
I.
Where is the head of the table? The man of the hour? The women he devoured? Everyone’s upset. No one pleased. The Man’s mind, diseased. The Man killed all the wise, no one man will stand up, for fear, is of the deceased. No noose, round neck, no slits to wrist. Firing lines of the old fashioned. Garica Lorca whiffed Andalusian air then took a drag off a cigarette. As weak fingers pulled dandelion triggers. What gives a man more claim to live than another? A freehold, deed? Lighter color skin, stripes on a uniform, clanking medals pinned to a chest? No, it is the ability to rationalize murder. In time, each man is a burden. A burden to his mother, the burden of his father, a burden to his teachers, his government, himself. A murder has no burdens, yet Thanatos is a burden to all.
II.
Sap falls from trees, like a widow’s tears. Crying out like a siren, only the mad can hear. Sweet is her sap, and low is her bellow. In low tones, she speaks, behind closed doors, reciting incantations. Those who keep silent boil in her cauldron, of tears… “Tis time,” “tis time”! “Tick, Tik, Tick.” Grimaces of pain in inaudible tones (from those no longer silent) comfort the widow; for round about this life, we go. “Tis time,” “tis time!” “Tick, Tik, Tick.” Drinking the potion of a mother’s sorrow (for her children taken too soon.) Mother's milk in summers rain, for darkness brew, commends her pain. We are mother’s children of shadows; in darkness, we, her children, play.
III.
Bitter roots we reserve for those who corrupt our children. For it is okay to die. A replacement is on the way. Who can replace Socrates? No worries, a replacement is on the way. One dumber than the next, meant to follow and be lead. Round and round cylinder go; dandelion finger pulls the hairpin trigger. Roundabout this life we go, singings Beetles tunes. Roundabout the world turns, Atlas tilts, and the moon shows us the way. “Tis Time, the clock hand bends toward the midnight hour.” “Tis time!” “Tick, Tik, Tick.” As wolves howl, and cauldron burns. We are mother’s children of shadows; in darkness, we, her children, play.
Fin.
