Rising to the surface in a sea
of dreams
a forgotten worshipper swims to shore
awash with the debris of
broken aspirations
and spilt oil
from the gourd of sacrifice

Roused by the calls of water-children,
wakefulness brings a darkening world,
howl of the waking wind,
cowl for the breaking rind.

Two clocks, embalmed, one lives again,
the shadow life of a second hand.
Crucified between them, like Christ
between two thieves, an old trophy.

Only a dull ache remains.
And then the last blackout.