[32] Counting Time, Ann Christine Tabaka


Time is no longer counted on fingers,

the ancient one has come home to roost.

Amidst dying embers and fading light,

candles flicker in the window still.

It is not the way of man

to accept such things so easily.

He cherishes youth and vigor,

and agonizes the passing of years.

Disregarding wisdom, despising the

mirror, while cursing his own vanity.

The hearth grows cold. Soot and ashes

linger as dreams die with the flames.

Aligned between two visions

of reality and desire, glazed eyes

stare down an uncertain path,

haunted by vague emotions.

The persistence of unanswered

questions flood sleepless nights,

mocking our existence. Memories

curled up on the floor of time invade.

The distance closes in.

Footsteps soften as he nears.

Counting done,

the guardian closes the gate.


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