By Dermot McGarthy
Of all the things he killed,
He regretted killing time the most,
During that long season of love,
When he played catch-up to the host.
Or in the period when he thought,
That art could somehow set him free,
As he kicked seconds into minutes,
He rolled them into hours,
Just to make people see,
That he was ruled by the tyranny of desire, and,
Conjoined hours with endless days did conspire,
To pursue anger and capture fear,
Building a citadel within,
As Sundays, seasons, and semesters in turn,
Were squeezed into the bin.
He even declined to turn every page,
As the inveterate fire within him blazed.
Rather skipping to chapter’s end,
As years were held ransom by decades,
With no rescue money to send.
Thus, that which he was killing,
Was really killing him,
Scripted by another’s hand,
From ringing out to ringing in,
Until the last lines that were written,
He stumbled upon aghast,
This time that they called ‘forever’,
Yet, he wondered,
Would it last?