Ancient

Time is not a clock.

No gears can describe its motion

The toughest spring is sprung,

While its hour is yet young.

Hands move with no intention but their bladed own.

A face smiles, sobs, wrinkles,

Time simply glares

I am standing still

The world moves around me

My limbs in tick-tock motion

The eyes looking up from the stream

And on reflection,

Away from hands, from faces, from darkling illusion.

There is a still and silent place inside of me

Beyond any world

And in this place

I am old

A stooped immortal, worn and weary

Watching it happen as it all has before

Uncaring, unsurprised,

But for the largest ripples running

Shivers on the spine of time

That upwell the memories of days now dust

And deposit saline waters on my shore

Their electrolytic touch tingles

I smile at their nostalgia.