Marching In Place

As if time were a line
We fall in to march
Second by second
From an imagined beginning
To a presumed end

We fret — dread —
Grabbing the side rails
Straining
To not be pushed ahead
Pleading to stay upon the line
Longer, farther

Forever hoarding time —
Each step, hour, day, decade
Wishing for this day
To yield
Just one more —

All the while
Knowing —
There is no line — no time —
Nothing to bear the weight
Of where we stood —

That we are
But ghosts —
Never born, already dead
Stitched into a costume
Marching in place
Upon —
The waiting abyss