III
Clocks randomly caress a skin or
the fingertips of pain which yearn
for the era of faster hours that lead
closer to the fast-approaching death.
Clock in a rush, ape like a busy bee
jumps from branch to branch
forward and backward as often
to attain the meaningless.
With pleasure, thinking of achieving
the ephemerally unreachable.
A sugar-coated bitter pill in
his mouth is what he calls progress
troglodyte jumps ahead to
attain a well-dressed nothing
as the ancient dogma fancies.
Ethos with heavy garments that
forever dictate the orchid’s
sanctified decapitation or
the drama of the frothy wave with
its undulating breaths incised
in the yellow sandy shoreline.
Libros Libertad 