Exhale

As the clock moves, it
winks -  
makes this dismal  
eye contact
with me,
and the moments  
move by,
colors born to the screen,
 
and the holes in my head
where the maker - this time;
this illusion, this lying beginning -
placed eyes
are all empty with art
and stuffed tight with fine lines,
and are dark, made to feed
and to live on the light
whether one sits around
or just burns in the mind -
all a ruse to wade through -
an incumbent -
a life.
 
This passage of seconds
begs me for belief,
but tomorrow is dead,
not a thing to be breathed.