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| Twenty-Four Seven |
2/6/2002
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Just the wind blowing softly, in the beginning, was all there ever was.
Knowing when to believe, believing when to know.
Learning when to feel, feeling when to learn.
Morning gone, lunchtime full.
Dinner not too far away.
To sleep or perhaps to dream.
Life once or so it would seem.
To remedy all in the world around us.
Looping around the edge of the trees.
Out into the ocean, out into the seas.
He walks and he walks until the breeze, the wind he believes, blows him away.
He once was, he once was never, he once could never.
He once will be never, he once will not, he once was not.
The man with a face.
Death looks him straight into his eyes.
He blinks.
Is it all over now?
Shaking head, pace quickens, his path ahead grows short.
Is there another way out?
Twenty-four seven.
The numbers count in procession.
Until all anyone can see is his face, blown apart by the wind.
Buried under eternity.
Stars shimmer violently to cast their light upon him.
A short-lived end is near.
He smiles all the same.
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