Tension

I remember the time when you said it was time but I wasted the time and it went,
and I remember like the last dying ember remembers the heat of its journey.

Where do chance opportunities go when you’re to slow to grab them,
shadows of men who have fought, maybe won, maybe lost
counting the cost of fortune.

Now
I drink Ovaltine trapped in the same old dream
watching the sun going down.

The light dissipates as he who waits quietly sits in the gloom.

One day
I’ll remember tomorrow
and probably
the day after it goes.

The hands creep slowly
across the face of the clock
which suits my purpose,
knowing
the numerals
are funerals
in disguise.

But I rise and I shine
and
this time
I will
remember.

© 2018, John Smallshaw.