Time creeps so slowly past
on tired, reluctant feet
through the shadows of the day
as if in fear of the darkness
that swallows up the light.
 
Night’s brief interlude flies past
as desperate moth wings beat
at the flickering flames
and will not go still until
sleep mercifully comes.
 
The richness of the moments
that were so long anticipated
are too soon spent
as the up and down hands
silently switch places
on the impassive face
of the constant clock.
 
Deliberately and inevitably
the parting glass is drained
sadness falls like the night
fatally wounded and bleeding
into the dawn’s dewy light
bathing you in its expectancy.
 
But you know better
used to time’s old tricks
as again it slows your world
into the routines demanded
by the needs of sanity.
 
And you pace back and forth
through memory’s dust.

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© Copyright, 2013, Christopher Roe.
All Rights Reserved.