I worry about time

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.

 

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