Time is less a moment than a river passed,
it’s the past and present, it’s the dreams of
what to be. It’s both the screams on streets
just after the suicide-bomber has pulled his
fuse and smell of roses in the old asylum.
Time is footsteps on the beach the waves
will wash away, it’s runes that’s carved in
granite, infinity and nought. Time is waves,
the wind and trees, an antipode of draught.
It’s rivulets and streams, it’s cascading joy,
a sluggish river filled with silt, but time will
always die, as stagnant water in a marsh.
A second offering on time for Lillian at dVerse Poetics
December 13, 2016