The Anachronist watches Fifty years depart In half the time. He dreams an irrepressible miracle Half-remembered, half-buried Waking in morning with wet eyes For the night song of trains And sodium light lullabies. Who could know those tears now Screaming soft through ink Ducts draining faster All the body weak? This is his reminder That further he must go Impress it well upon his skin At last there is a ‘no’ The Anachronist defines That which came to pass Sated he is always In realms of photographs. He would be curator Of histories sans nom All of it for nothing In a life that’s not his own. The Anachronist recalls By broken promise The challenge of volition. He retires the pen And resigns his hope In keeping ancient talisman. Refuse letters, refuse song For the sun who also rises.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Southern Stories to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.