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Time
Time being colossal,
a spin had to be found,
two covers, a book we call
it a beginning and an end.
In time we tick off a digestible
portion;
calling it our own,
walking between the covers
hoping never to get lost again,
Time being just that;
A definition,
always as slippery as an heel
each eureka, an inflated sense
of discovery.
But time never allowing itself to
be touched,
but rather a brief feel,
living among each tick of the
clock,
close enough but still a mystery,
and as time becomes another
space in time,
we are out of words in trying to
tell the others,
about this other demention,
where the sun never sets,
where it all revolve's into wonders
and signs,
a world balancing on a super natural
precision,
out-pacing thoughts,
leaving behind paper and pen.
The story about time running
around,
catching at the wind like children.
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