Fresh Hell

Here’s an old, old poem from my journals. I was probably twenty-one.

 

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Ten minutes, twelve

A slim segment of

Boundless possibilities

Life-changing structure

Structureless life

Miracles and sanity and reason and hope

Whirl in twelve minutes

Six minutes

So much in six minutes

If you keep halving it

You’ll keep having it

The end will never come

If you focus

Try hard enough

Escape the impermeability

The wretched maze

Of time

 

Time doesn’t tick anymore

It squeezes in silence

And bloats our fears

And miles yawn before us

And thirty-odd years

And when the end happens

We’ll look back and see

Just nothing, black nothing

And eternity

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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