Innate Timing

Unearthed,

we will look
like dreams

taken halfway to
fruition and suddenly
discarded, as child’s

toys are thrown
to the sand and

left idle, rotting in
the persistent sun,
fading plastic effigies.

Found,

below some
street or railway’s
new construction,

these things that we
hold in such high
regard will be only
faded newsprint from
a bygone age,

stripped of value
by that natural
process, that

innate timing we all
strive so bitterly to
renounce, yet again
falling, snapped back
ever more forcefully
by the invisible springs
of the universal will.

Unmasked,

we find ourselves
bones, our works
petty even in their
time, husks of flesh

animated by futile
yet somehow
poignant impulse
to these activities,
these unincorporated
tasks which save us
from that great, fearful
ogre,

that nothing,

that grim lack
of even the
illusion of

meaning.