Waiting

The good old days went by without us even knowing they were the good old days,
If you really want to make something matter all you have to do is throw it away,
The solvent of time will put the flesh to its base of dust,
And spike the differential of what happened and how you remember it;
as your memories start to rust.
I didn’t know this was my life; I’ve been wondering when it would start,
The stars were laid before me like an autopsy but I couldn’t read that chart,
But I have learned from the despotic now; you’ve got to live every moment like
it’s gonna be your past,
Because if you’re building a bridge you better build it to last.
I prefer what I want to what I have so I bargained the swamp of my soul,
And so the future’s born-again-chaos becomes the moment’s device of control,
I live on the feast of becoming; in a relentless cathedral of rain,
Reality is an amalgamation of memory and moment fixed in the arrogant ache of
this pain.
The clockwork-killing of the neo-nothingness that each day dreams up to dream
down,
Is the swim of the river; the source of the deep that will drown,
And the apathetic motion of my allegorical little life; remaining,
Draws sustenance from this nothingness and feasts on this famine;
upon the time containing.
Everyday is just the heap of waiting; just the unwilling weather of this
weatherman’s will,
The static motion of this routine of ruin; make for an easy kill,
But what can you really yield to this reaper; because this is not living it’s
just surviving,
Where can you really go in this hardwired nowhere; because this is just going;
not arriving.