Decline

It is not pain that holds me back, but time
With its sad prefigurations and smell
Its flowers and echoes, rivers and crime
Even now, without a future, I tell
Myself lies in future tense. As my hair
Thins, I collect combs. When clocks chime, I groan
The falling world finds pleasure in despair
Because to suffer means to be alone
And I suffer through all the accidents
Of change as though I were settling a score
As if to disinvent what death invents
I once built a castle, now I do chores
To pass the time I rearrange my things
To fall asleep I recite names of kings