The Gospel of Chronos

I stole the arms of the clock:
the hours can't overflow and engulf me anymore.
I can contain them within the four walls
of this now. I promised myself not to hear
the deafening ticking of time controlling me
as silence flows meekly.
I can finally release the slave dwelling in me, a Camus' friend.
She is so far from all those principles of pleasure.

I am free but truth isn't liberating.
I don't know how to walk without my chains.
The now is a speeding car. Tomorrow can be a disaster.

I watch the clock dying without its arms on the table
as time flies and even when I want to believe I have
time under my command, it slips through my fingers
and handcuffs my semi-open body,
disgusting me with more white hair,
piercing my squeezed heart with a new remorse,
shattering my glass eyes every now and then
as I find another symptom binding me to something
I can't deny or hide.

It is comfortable to be a slave of that sand
flowing incessantly in the exhausted hourglass.
Bring the water and let me wash my hands:
Chronos, thy will be done.

Karla Bardanza
http://karlabardanzapoems.blogspot.com
http://skycladatmidnight.tumblr.com
http://poeticpostcards.blogspot.com