Against time By Darrell Grayson

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Always pushed, pressed and molded
By these ageless stones, this
Ancient Indian burial ground, this imperial
Ant-hill,
Holding pens in death’s domicile
And we its domain.

Here, aging souls grow increasingly sour,
And these mature spirits are sadly
Reverting to juvenile states, congregating
With youths also condemned to objectification
And social apathy.


And mothers, (always mothers) are crying
In their coming in and going out.
In their restless sleeping and awakenings
They too are slammed about in the ever
Unending sounds that echo within the
Illusion of having time.
Bang, bang, bang against time and
The newest mother’s startled wail.
The soul wrenching cry of disbelief is heard
As some jump and shout against time,
Before and after the killing-game has ended.


Darrell B. Grayson
They are all copyrighted - 2005. (In the Library of Congress)