By FS Overly
I watch the stars slowly move across the sky, passing time
I see them fall into darkness, like the days of my youth
When the day turns to light, I forget the night’s cigarette
Until inside creeps too much confusion to see the path
Before me. There must be something that lies beyond my reach
But to plead against time is futile, there is no escape
Days slip into dreams of my inevitable escape
But ever chasing after me are the long hands of Time
And with each step, ever closer I remain within reach
And thus, vaster grows the distance between myself and Youth
All the while, before me winding endlessly is this path
The only thing that slows us down are the chance cigarettes
Yet on my lip it hangs still and hopeless, my cigarette
Even this being, from the hands of Time, cannot escape
My eyes follow slowly the endlessly changing smoke paths
And the deliberate burning passes gently the time
Remains just another way to smother what’s left of youth
And yet, my fingers, for just one more they frequently reach
But why is it, our hands must eternally be reaching
Sometimes, it is yearning only for one more cigarette
And yet more incessantly, reaching for the hands of Youth
Thinking silently about how to cheat death and escape
Though, in some way we all must know how thrives the lives of Time
Perhaps then, the unabridged thought of escape is the path
And possibly then, there is no such thing as a set path
Only a time from now until then where we all must reach
I may think that he too must have an end, even for Time
Maybe he knows, and the clouds are the path of cigarettes
And I am saddened to think even he cannot escape
His old hands fold and wrinkle as he disappears from Youth
But in my head, I envision that maybe even Youth
Had once discovered her deliberate way to Time’s path
So goes lovers, once entwined, one never truly escapes
And maybe our whole lives, are just their longing hands reaching
Endlessly for each other, lost in smoke of cigarettes
And he goes on looking, unable to flee his own time
Maybe I’m too in love with Youth, and am ever reaching
Only to be too far off her path, lost in cigarettes
And that’s why I’ll never escape the jealous hands of Time
F. S. Overly is an American poet, writer, and figment. Author of A Hill Without Trees.
