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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/504834-At-Last
by Joy
Rated: 13+ · Poetry · Death · #504834
the rhythm of distortions--from "Dali's clocks"
A painting by Salvador Dali

River racing in white foam sneakers
among the frowning rocks.
Menacing the clocks,
the rhythm of time rising and falling
like her thoughts.
Oh, to drown them,
not so easy. . .

She hoped for time’s arrival
when time was already past.
An outcast of yesterdays and tomorrows
inside herself bickering,
a flame ready to vanish,
she stood
flickering.

Overruling all objections time ruled,
creeping through, feasting on remains,
stripping layers of memory,
wrecking her books, her house,
degrading her deeds, her symbols,
a presence silencing her,
in awe.

Without face or figure, time got its way;
a fierce feline pouncing on its prey,
playing with its victims,
watches, clocks, and other timepieces like
feelings, passions, minds, men,
tormenting, before wiping them
away.

Time flew in frenzy; time spied, slaying clocks.
A simple flower waited to disappear any second,
and white waters ran losing their forms,
dreaming of rainstorms.
“Let time bite its own tail,” she said,
as she stepped forward
on the rocks.

Her splash down below, a flashing manifesto
of the cancerous swelling on her side
scratched by time’s claws.
A savage war cry slithering in blood,
on the white foam etching her veto.
Her thoughts drowning. . .
at last.




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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/504834-At-Last