TIME
As I look out
the window,
the sun
coldly sets.
Eleven hours
too late.
Six hours
too late.
(I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.)
As I get out of bed here,
on a rain-swept morn,
in the city cuddled
by River
she walks home
from work
under dusky twilight
smiling but worn out-
on another continent
my family is playing Rang
as the maid lays out dinner,
and sleep will beckon
in just a while.
I am displaced.
Time is misplaced.
If it is the purple streaked
Dawn six strokes past
Here in the
And the radiant glory of
Where she resides,
While the evening crow
Caws
I have left behind,
What is the real time?
Am I lagging behind
In time, in life, in fear,
Tagging after the bustling
Sun that sets too soon
In my homeland?
I used to fist the stars
And the sun and hide
Them in my bosom.
But is the sun really mine?
It visits me here
Once it has burst forth
On those it prefers
And then just
Sets here in the West.
Time escapes me.
The sun negates me.
(I think I made you up inside my head).