4/4

The hands of time took my disarray
Folded it into what I thought was a tear-proof existence
And the fleeting flushing of clarity revealed itself
As an empty matter
And settled into its featherweight reality.


And so often it is
We wander straight lines marked with
Red tape and masochism
We know our restless hands produce futile efforts
When the music never changes.


It's like we're falling away into that no-place
The one with coordinates like a 4/4 time signature
And street signs made from tempered glass
That only point to the exits
The ones with the locked doors.


And, I think
It was in the stretching hallway of question
When the silence of consequence screamed so loudly
In my ear
…"Nothing", it told me.


We could take those black paths
Because walking isn't pointless
When the steps have deepened purpose
And the pace is set appropriately
To match the beating of our hearts.