Titans

So we’re here again:

digging for answers,

paper like dirt

covering my arms, my hands

fumbling with edges, tripping

on the written word.

Wasn’t this all once

so much more simple?

What happened to the empty

hours, the dark hours,

when nothing was limited,

when time grew like flowers.

Somewhere between

now and then

someone planted a countdown,

an electrical weed blaring,

blaring loudly,

blaring out our end.

The room flickers

and I think this is it:

the void has come

to darken our sun,

to drown our garden,

to watch the time die.

And my hands can’t find the answers,

my fingers can’t find the words.

Hours, like flowers are drifting – they’re dying –

electricity doesn’t mix with flowers,

and when the light goes out, they drown.