The seconds,
measured by hands covering faces,
burst out in uniform micro-eruptions,
then disappear faster than smoke rings.

Like a fly entangled in a spider’s web
so I am tethered to time,
dragged ever onward,
only able to glance back
over caliginous past.

Resignedly I stumble on,
picking up the signs of Cronus,
like burrs,
as I go.

The spirit longs to soar,
with the songs of angels
above the measure of metered marching.

I shall fly.
I shall rise above this flood of flowing Titan.
Some un-day
I shall fly.