Cynthia Florence
Time out of Time
In my long years it has not come to me, such a thing so bold and wistfully
Swung and swinging in the great Gale Western, glanced at so ephemerally-My eyes held to it with the grasp of an old, dying sun, life run away.
Immemorial stands it, expansive and sorrowful, christened by stars
That it might call its sisters--yet I am to it just a mote to survey
Omnipresent in nothingness, a memory forgotten, dropped and swallowed beyond the fabric of
anything that matters or is written or is wrought upon a dead universe
Afar.
One defines one’s existence in context of that wondrous unknowable dark
An abyss so, so dreadfully empty one might go conceive it alive
And I, mediator between the abyss and fair aether, would cry stark
Tears of sickly gold ichor in protest,
“To think is to die! To laugh is to cry! The life out there is not for our eyes!”
But motes as we are venture above the mind, human ideas addressed
In forms unspeakable, language untouchable, sights impenetrable-As a rock is broken into sand.
I wish not to see it. I wish not to know it. But burdens lie on old
Men’s minds as time so wrings mine out of time-No time, no place, no sight, no fear. But all the more that might appear
When time out of time and space out of space are no longer given their appropriate face;
I’m not frightened. I’m terrified.