robed, head downcast
move on in a procession
painstakingly dragging on
slow shuffling feet
none standing in the dark corridor
observing them pass by.
Through the frieze in an alcove
the Northern star looks on
steadfast in forbearance
young stars shake in trepidation
in a worn torn sky.
Candles burn in flickering flames frail.
Cupped gnarled hands fail to shield.
The gusty wind snuffs out life
in one hard blow.
Where are you, frolicking in paradise?
The ticking of the clock
on the walls of stone
Multiples of sixty every minute now
deafens the senses
eyes grow dim
hands grope in darkening alleys
a heart that never was beats loud and clear.
Where are you, lotus eater?
Wake up from your dream.
It is now time for war.
The ticking clock is our battle cry.