Apokalupsis Eschaton

Time is a solemn man of business.

His dark eyes staring into a direction

ours cannot look in.

The ticks of his tongue

mark the seconds of this world.

His finger tapping

every hour.

His long and tired sighs –

every decade.

His eyes closing for a moment,

as if in silent prayer,

at every end of every century.

He lifts his teacup to his lips,

drowns his insides with its boiling touch.

Another plague goes by

unnoticed

He lifts the newspaper

to read about what happened

during yesterday’s millennium.

He clicks his tongue in more angry disappointment,

quickening time.

We convince ourselves it’s just a feeling

in our gut,

that we don’t feel the eleventh hour approaching.

Its seconds more deliberate

than ten’s.

His headache caused

by the terrible burden

of understanding the true meaning

of eternity

is worsening.

He needs release.

He holds his hands up to his eyes,

closes them, and rubs them softly.

But now he cannot open them

he cannot open up his eyes.

Now he cannot keep the time.

The ticks subside.

He loses track of sighs.

He reaches the very end

of 11:59.