Speaks about his trip to Kempler-47
explains, with great verve
how two planets in one
survive, but then loses all focus,
speaking of the time he took up arms
and charged the mighty brigades
of battlefields east of Macedonia,
not long after Christ returned Home;
his eyes move upwards and to the left,
his breath takes labor, and pauses...
He is rapidly reclusing into a vacant vacuum,
where basic bodily functions are absentee;
I look at the strange clock on his wall,
painted black, he claims, to freeze-frame Time,
the one he crafted one night in the rain,
numbers smeared into timelessness;
and I think to myself, how apropos
such nebulous entities guide his mind,
as time and logic are as close to him
as Kempler-47.
© 2015-All rights reserved
Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem