An Army of Tiny Hours

Thin, the yawning red strands of light
these great bones of the daily dying sun;
the black bleeds out onto bare streets
as homeward, ever again quiet
the earth folds in and thinks itself free.
But it returns eternally.

Bellicose, I am an infinity ever passing;
A wanderer, an army of tiny hours marching,
in all things as lonely and free
as any word of God;
an accursed almighty motion
with which no youth can keep pace.
Homeward, never again;
time takes me like my mothers arms
to stray endlessly far.