Dispossessed of my natural
place in the continuum,
the currents wherein life occurs course about me,
indifferent to my detached existence amid the coherent expansion.
This inside space alters the perceived experiences of time,
as a drug, a nap, or a nightmare will,
but its singular reality must be lived to be imagined.
Enduring a punishment dilates time,
magnifying the moment to almost unbearable slowness;
living a punishment blows the time frame way up,
engulfing me in an immense, inescapable black hole of NOW.
Time's normal passage is lined with memories
that give a sense of its dimension in its fullness of them;
the lack of real events in this monotonous routine
leaves me bereft of remembrance,
impressing the cruel illusion in retrospect of time quickly passed.
Time is the omnipresent entity here:
in the face of the unforgiving clock
that ticks off losses, one by one;
in the pages of the calendar,
graphic reminder of holidays, occasions,
and numbered days,
which I beg to come, beg to leave,
then mournfully epitaph with an x;
in the occupation of my mind with the term of my stay here;
in the beating of my mortal heart,
restless pulse of a life not being lived.
Waiting is the only season in these months of a night,
when moons pull no tides in the sedentary watch.
Entombed in this cold, concrete cocoon,
I'm impatient with minutes, yet tolerant of years,
a chrysalis that sleeps in the house of his fears.
by Joseph Burgeson
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