The Waking Hours

I search the missing link

that interlinks the tattered ends of a chain undone

I watch the faceless shades passing by in lethargic

state,

dreaming of something to occur.

I walk through canyons of concrete where the poet gets

lost

and a walking eye weeps, where no visionary dares to

reside.

And I sense Sisyphus climbing the hill with panting

steps

for this sad time weighs his run.

In every waking hour

In any kind of golden light

In every moment of conception

In every hour you try to feel

always lies a sense of change

I feel the sense of change as Sisyphus clutches at life

but the lifeless shades of monotony obscure his

brightest day

Is all that's left a plain choise, to last or to fall

on the edge of collective drab?

Must we find fortune in constant revolt?

In every waking hour

In any kind of golden light

In every moment of conception

In every hour you try to awake