Time Killer

We are murderers,
you and I,
cold-blooded killers
of sharpened sticks
that inch slowly forward,
stopped dead in their tracks
by the stiff hands of time,
three hands, yours, and mine,
cut across like branches
from a fallen tree,
time lashed across time,
nailed to an angle and
dangling over a precipice,
hunched in the corner,
like a trembling animal,
like a child
buried deep underground,
but together we excavate,
together we raise our hands,
and the machete follows it silent arc
and traces a black moon across the sky,
and ink and blood
sing together like a fountain
falling, flowing into the earth,
crying tears that melt
the substance of the ground,
until the sky is the earth,
and the ocean, blood red,
seeps into the eye of a storm
that beams light into the sunrise,
where death is reborn.

I have killed a thousand times,
with knives
and poison,
barbarian clubs,
bullets and
bombs and
sinister eyes,

I have murdered time
with all these things,
I have killed time
with this poem,
a meaningless slaughter of words
running red of the page,

I have killed time
with this poem,
without rhyme or
reason or
remorse,
I have killed time
with this poem,
and now,
so have you.