I See That Which Is Not

In this prison of time, the executioner waits,

the grim peril looms on the killing field, the grass amber red. 

I think as a short pigeon,  and act as a hawk, fidgeting with numbers in the dark hall,

peeking in the shadows of senseless motions that dim in sight,

only to flash thru my dilemma of sardonic agony,

and free the rafters of the spider’s soul-sucking riptide undercurrent that pulls me down.

Escape the fenced tragedy I have as my deliverance?  No, to that end I do not struggle. 

I laugh at the occult forbearing etchers,  and carve my path with a glance. I know. I watch.

I never stand still. I see that which is not. – Sinz