Scrolls

 
 

I always travel slower than excuses;
too busy getting lost in the evolution of magic
then wading out, through its degeneration.

I've stayed silent through times when words
could only lie, and the whir of night's insects blare.
I've tried to sketch life in the dead wings of moths
and bring existence back to its embryonic state
but the magic is as elusive as truth or love.

When my eyelids shut, a scroll opens.
The scrolls are written with eyes agape,
at a time when the words should have left.

I don't speak for long, so that when I do
I sound like the buzz of a clock, ticking too fast -
chasing time in a flimsy-bone showdown
where eventually, my eyes will stop opening,
the parchments can unravel who I could have been
and the insects are still for the orphic tongues.

Life has always been a lie; a mannequin
waving his children off to school.
The many shades of truth are collectively called Death
and everything else is how it should be. On its way.