irony of time

Time is this circular irony,
history’s dead coldness
reflected in strange
habits, blatant denial.
Your secret reckoning.
Naked refusal face
to face with a room
full of elephants.

Which way do you run?

Turned inside out
this pain of
living, agony like long
knives slicing through the dark
irony of time,
circulating your
bones bitten
with raw flesh pangs
of grief.
This is the truth.
When all things die.
Surrendered.

With what black magic
can you disappear
your unwanted selves?
What dark arts
have you to paint over
your mistaken bleakness,
to sculpt
your shame’s deformity?

Those things that winter
cannot bury.
Subtle winds.
Grey and failing. Where
do you turn?
Inside. out.
Unburied secrets: they know
you better than
you
know yourself.

Even still, take flight
with your collected feathers
and seek the sun.
I have no answers.
Only secrets to bury.
My funereal existing.
Eulogy for history, time
passed away.