I dream of what
shall be should Time relent
Its awful pace
toward the last event;
The cataclysmic
point where we repent
Or waive the
refuge of the sacrament.
If once his scythe
would swing and miss its aim
And not another
blue moon’s boundary maim,
I’d lay
my clock face down to hide its shame;
No tick nor tock
nor tolling to proclaim
A further moment
wasted while we craft
Excuses for the
deeds left understaffed.
It’s been
too long a time since last we laughed,
But now the sounds
of mirth have blocked the draught
Of cold lament,
we take this treasured day
In four hands
fast and carry it away
To form from
this new era’s faultless clay
A shapeless void
that Time cannot decay.
