Those of us,
who know how time works
worry
about how finite it can really be
if we
really thought about it
the ticking rhythms
the chimes
the rhymes
morbid sand glasses
death and destruction
all in one continuous
loop,
what is now, will never be again
what will be, can never be foreseen
each moment keeping pace with the next
yet left behind, in its own right
to wait for others who are slow to follow
and must grow old, for the sake of new time
there never is just one moment,
we are always existing
between the second hand of the wall-clock
suspended to prevent erasure
like the old tale about the child
sacrificed by his father to the God of Death,
we too must exit this world
in order to understand it
the beauty of time,
thus lay in its absence.
A heathen poet 