The metamorphosis is complete,
As the second hand begins its sweep,
The hour is born from the womb,
The Aegis of the minute,
Of the day of the month of the year,
Begins dwindling and churning,
Grinding and turning,
My existence lurches still,
Not forward nor back,
Non existent, but still physical,
Searching for something,
In the cloudy eyes empty,
of all promise,
The Ghosts of the past,
return once again to haunt,
And the metamorphosis is now complete.
