The Drums of Time

The ceaseless beating of a drum, fast marks our days ‘til we are done. Our time will come, our time will come. Listen, listen, can you hear it? Growing louder as you near it, as men of courage, cowering, fear it. A distant, daunting, haunting hum, vibrations of a tympanum, of time to come, of time to come. Strings of the cosmic tympanum, vibrating ‘branes as they are strum, keep perfect time ‘til we are done. Drum beats of infinite duration, a cosmic tintinnabulation, God’s multiversal modulation. In resonance the yogis “OM” harmonics of the cosmic thrum, that marks our days ‘til we are done. The poets and the prophets pray their words of warning will convey why we should cherish every day: Blake wrote with vision, somber, sour, “Eternity in just one hour.” Just long enough to smell a flower, before the beasts of time devour. Look, to the stars, where we began, now turn around and you are old. Go, smell the flowers, while you can, soon you’ll be buried in the cold. For the ceaseless beating of a drum, fast marks our days ‘til we are done. Our time will come ... my time has come! For the ceaseless beating of a drum, fast mar … Submitted 6-8-2020.