Strolling along
One jaunting day
I came to the end of the road
I stopped and stood
I stared agog
And pranced in place
Utterly dumbfounded
There was no reason here
Birds flew west
Clocks travelled north
And only chimed on the quarter hour
But never the same quarter
In any given hour
And somehow managed to fit
More than four quarters
Into one whole.
The road did not slow
Nor slope
Nor decay
In its descent
Some warning of the end
It simply stopped
As though
A giant pair of shears
Had cut it clean through
Along with the rest
Of time and space and reason
And hidden it all in a drawer
Locked in some long forgotten desk
Where all the best secrets are kept
And forgotten
God is hidden in their too I bet
Or at least the answer to which
Is the right and which are superfluous.
As for me
Finally I just sit
And wait
Whiling away each
Northbound, bisected hour
Since, you see
The way back
Has been cut away
As well.
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