“Clocks slay time… time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life”

William Faulkner


What Truly is Time?
Chained to the clock, so we are tied to time;
through trials and uncertainties it is certain;
a constant progression in the obsession of life.

Yet how much do we consider its power?
Empires rise, crumble, from the ashes
a mirror image formulated and negated
by the same Achilles heel that shattered the former- Humanity

Insanity by any means, though there is logic,
method to the madness, that one views
the whole and sees it as futile, sees the chains
attached by the wrist to the hands of the clock
Time goes onward, forward despite
all we do, and though we constantly falter
we consistently succeed. These successes,
these systems of logic, reason, government
will one day fall, or may stay alive
or will crumble leaving only the foundation, for a mirror image
to rise from the ashes. I do not know, for by that time

I’ll be long gone from this world, safe in a coffin
without any bonds on my wrists any longer.
Until then, and may that time take its time in coming;
run, run, run, run, jump and leap and tackle your trials
for they are, as we’ve seen, nothing in the long run.

What truly is Time?
What power be the clock?
What walls are constructed
twixt the Tick and the Tock?

What blinders are fastened
to my quick darting eye
to hide the fatal speed
one attains or must die?

What truly is Time?
Is it really an old man
who occasionally we kill
but never truly can?
Whose spidery fingers
wrap round my strained neck
and strangle sanity,
reducing me to a wreck?

We awaken to Alarms,
bells send us to next class-
Live, breath, die the Schedule-
When will this torture pass?
Time flies in ecstasy
and crawls at tedious pace
when pain is extended-
but neither slows the damned race.

The stress of the deadline
a press on my brain,
Crushed neurons fire desperate
adds to this cruel strain.
Now when I close my eyes
at the end of the day,
To a far different deity
I bow my head to pray.

For up high on my dresser
sits a clock ticking on,
in sync with a heart
that beats the hellest of songs.
Leaning up to the walls
twixt the Tick and the Tock

I try to press through
the most solid of rock,
but my fingers sink in
and I realize just then-
Freedom is no question of how,
But rather simply, when?



~A spoken word is a moment. A written word is eternal~

Moe R.