Time runs backwards as I age to taunt the pretense I presage
A quiet evening gathers force against the efforts I endorse
I build, I dream, I recreate, alluring hope I’m not too late
I treasure up those goods I keep yet still comes on that endless sleep
Protean made, a crown of gain, is nothing more than shadows slain
For time runs backward like that dawn that shall soon cease to carry on
A starless night, a moonless sky, an Earth devoid of my reply
This versive current of the clock has made of me a thing to mock *
Awkward does my every care seem amplified – a blind man’s snare
Bound within me I’m unknit, my ledgers lost, my tack unfit
Nostic lies the length of me, consumed in doubt and dread defeat *
For time speeds backward like the flight of birds of prey who track my plight
What matter if I shape the world so tightly is my soul so whorl’d
That I can never free myself from ravage, ruin, or dispel
The loss I suffer while I decay, my aims in life all led astray
I raise, I reach, my fall is great, the night comes on, I woke too late
Drommund grows the darkened eve, when will not this soon relieve *
For time bleeds backward like the wound that to cure is all immune…
versive * – to be both poetically metered and twisted or torsioned into an aversive design or subversive shape
nostic * – to be physically exhausted and unable to continue yet fully aware and sensate
drommund * – to race through the world in a reckless and violent or suicidal manner
Wyrdwend 