Locked on repeat,
the seconds, the minutes,
the hours, the days,
and on, and on,
the weeks, the months,
the years, the decades,
and on, and on,
centuries and epochs,
and on,
and on,
and on,
strains along,
ending at the beginning;
the absurd category,
of the formless,
elusive, ether-like, substance of life,
known as time.
Dream machines,
conceal the nightmares,
of time out of joint;
straining to inspire, to bemuse,
to arouse and abuse,
the disenchanted and bored;
happy to pass time,
and wait for the end.
Melodies spin hypnosis,
to a familiar beat -
chewing bubblegummed synapses,
on the elevator,
in the mall,
and on the street.
You know,
it's still on repeat.
Out of element, out of place,
skip,
shuffle,
switch,
repeat.
Come here,
and touch the sky,
go on and plummet,
plunge, freefall, and spiral,
towards great heights.
Study the text,
register the surface,
for the title says all,
and the pages say nothing.
The Word unquestioned,
remains absolute;
peddling facility,
posing as redemption -
for the one and only.
Hope is the dawg,
who gets into heaven anyways.
The doomed believer,
soaked in saccharine,
clutches onto dogma,
and searches skyward,
for the Fatherly corpse -
beset by rigormortis.
Still it is nothing,
if not everything,
for what possibilities lie Beyond?
Possibilities, possibilities,
infinitismal in hand;
yet abysmally incomplete.
Time is not paused,
it passes and returns,
here and again.
Locked on repeat,
sputtering along,
yearning for end;
only to begin again,
to unconscious return,
onwards anew;
a virgin instant restored?
