The graying stupor of the present mind,
Is spread far out into a silvered pane,
Reflecting what's before you and behind,
Each image in each instant just the same,
You find that thought has not a gift to lend,
Each moment seeks dimensions but no more,
Impossibly suspended with no end,
Each self is searching, yearning for a door.
Crumpled like in sodden tissue folds,
Ensnared are dullness, sadness, and despair,
In a loop which strangles as it holds,
Time's shattered arrow, bent beyond repair.
How can you reach reflections? Or be free?
As time drags on with nothing left for me.

How can you gaze beyond what is not there?
You shuffle back and forth like passers-by,
Each wanting to give way to mirror stare,
Each mimicked movement yet another try,
And then to run and headlong meet their rush,
Sink into tar pits of rhythm-lag grime,
How can you paint with any kind of brush,
The color of the passage of the time?
If only you could melt your way to rest,
Or fix your mind upon a useful goal,
You're only live half a life at best,
And with no gap you'll never find the whole.
How can you find with any kind of rhyme,
The color of the passage of the time?