The passage of time
echoes
like the lonely swing
of a grandfather clock’s pendulum
resonates through an empty house.
Memories
of laughter and life
don’t linger
like old, forlorn ghosts.
Even the air
carries a milieu
of forgotten dreams
and broken promises.
Silence
is the only companion
in the tomb.
But Time is not a jailer.
It does not hold the keys,
nor does it guard the door.
Time is merely the notion
that there are any walls,
or doors,
or bars at all.
What is a life sentence
to the enduring?
What are the ticks
of the clock,
but measures
in a song.
Why would one dwell
in a prison
of their own devising?
Just outside
that limits of our senses,
our sense of self,
our concept of who we are,
are other people,
whose worlds
are unimaginable.
Whose prisons
are not prisons at all,
but vessels and vehicles.
They traverse
the very time that binds us.
They exist
between the darkness
and the light.
While we mourn
in the dark
of our lonely,
empty mansions,
we fail to recognize
that our prison
is a doorway.
Listen closely.
The ticking of time
could very well be
a countdown
to ignition.
HG – 2022
