Time

Time Nothingness in it belies A continuum, uncanny In all lives it defines Love, hate, rage and litany A motion on its own Sweeping, inescapable A yardstick mankind bemoans Perpetual journey, irreversible It’s life’s anathema Yet it counts life It’s a thing of enigma That heaven had contrived To it the mind ascribes Its values and permanence From these, it proscribes Denying life’s resistance Our minds’ affixed To it we subordinate Subservience afflicts Our minds it subrogates It obfuscates reality Yet mortal minds believe Its power and ability We could not, but receive In truth, it exists Only in our minds Its dwelling crevice From where it unwinds In consciousness, it’s framed Weaved to life, togetherness For all excuses, it’s claimed Indistinguishable, oneness But for consciousness It would not exist Nothingness, meaningless Like a vanquished beast What is this thing of enigma? Given life by consciousness Unfathomable, life’s anathema Yet, treated with utmost seriousness What is this thing of enigma? Ephemeral, elusive Ethereal like an Avatar Too convoluted to perceive It’s life’s inexplicable debt But to consciousness it owes Payable only by death Yet its interest never grows You and I we share this thing Only in consciousness it’s sublime But in death there would be nothing Of this enigmatic thing called “Time” Jit H. Lim 12 March 2012 12:36am Singapore