Mannequin

What are the lines that separate each moment from the eternal plane?

As the divine pines take a dive for rebirth, as does my concept of time.

I used to believe time meant change...

An ongoing march toward betterment and its counterpart: chaos.

Tick tock goes the clock, yet here I stand unmoved. Choked by an inescapable albatross.

Frozen: Marching in place toward nothing.

These eyes gloss over, and my ligaments freeze.

To be a mannequin. What I’d give for the ease

to exist as one who’s known nothing else.

But, alas, my heart waits on the shelf.

Like staring through a stream that moves too fast,

passion for creation with no means or motivation yearns to last.

Ignore the impulse of cowardice and inhale as we come to grips.

For the clock never ceases it’s ticks.