Time

Monday-to-Thursday and then Tuesday-to-Sunday the same,
days like the seasons cycle through me,
playing a tedious game,
bearing the burden of my blame.

because time sometimes fasts but always slows,
reappearing each second to scatter scars
and tiny ghosts across my skin, and
with each smite millions of undiscerned cycles.

So August-to-February, like June-to-November,
is filled with secret inspections of minutehands that
point to the infinity of noon;
my thousand eyes look upward
at a cycle, which transcends.

But the incessant tick of the seconds, with
sonic waves through my head,
pulls me down with stronger hands.