Ocher & Stale

Spending Time

Saturday, January 31, 2025

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As the days pass, it seems each of them is simpler than the last. Even on the days it seems as though I do not enjoy my time, when dusk comes upon me, I mourn like a reaper without his harvest. The simpler times, in all their relaxed rush, are coming to a close like the inevitable setting sun.

Each sunset I watch shows me the importance of my time, and of those with whom I prefer to spend it. Too long have I placed my dwelling among those who leech like vampires. The risk is too great to exchange that which is paramount to me for nothing more than spent nerves and mental exhaustion, especially when presence is implausible. Too long have I resided among those who do not understand me.

And yet every day is a blessing. What a blessing it is to be able to spend my time and choose the people with whom I share it. My people, whether close or far from me, know my appreciation for their time. My people, who may have nothing to trade and still trade their company and kindness anyway. My people, who accept me for who I am without needing to resist my thoughts and character, know their presence is cherished.

Whether I find myself in company or not, as the world spins yet still, there is not a moment that goes by for which I am not thankful.

I am a prisoner here

Trapped in an unfamiliar tomb,

Without a whimper a shout or a cry,

Where darkness sews the world in gloom

And wails out with bitter ocher and stale—

But I'll be damned if I let out even a sigh

For I am a prisoner here

Like some soundless and forgotten exhale.

When I see those whose time cuts short

Remembering the vigor of youth and stalwart,

Now the gaze of death comes upon them

Their hearts once a proud and gleaming gem;

Yet they're of glassy eyes and furrowed brow

Preparing for their final quiet bow.

As time shows me the world suits me yet still

I am a prisoner here and I am tortured

Where death speaks only of dread and chill—

When the monarchs migrate from orchards

Of grand oak and trees of old,

The whispers of age blow nothing but cold.

Here I stand an unrighteous man

In a world made for wicked men ...

I am a prisoner here

But the breath of life has acquitted again,

Me a mouthful of teeth and an inclined ear;

And when time hangs heavy in my own hands

I will walk freely into God's promised lands.