Opportune tenacity regulates my soul
against the wave born thoughts of reason
that have intensified the toll,
extracting cherished bits of memory
from the speciousness of mind
regaled within the boundaries
we have aptly labeled time.
My heart no longer beating,
my cold blood dried and dead
within the confines of my spirit
my eternal book is read;
to the ghosts that haunt and plague me,
to the inept breeding pride,
to the worthless charms and omens,
to all who lived and died.
I rattle in my coffin
linguistic chains of slight
as I turn each crumpling page
black dirt absorbs the light,
but I know the bitter answer
to the quandary we call time
I am trapped within the moment
of a stalled and stagnant tide.