Archive
08/12/09
Far Too Busy
Time has a way of waylaying us, Shoving us off the turnip truck, under the bus, Dumping us in the gutter, like bags bulging with garbage.
It makes no distinctions between class, caste, status, Treats all of us as if we're one, no one — The mealiest, lowliest hobo and hubristic billionaire as coevals.
And why should it be otherwise? time has often philosophized. Human beings are a dime-a-dozen-dozen million. Their comings and goings are of no moment,
Regardless of the resonant or benign fame/notoriety They leave in their wakes, on taking leave of their lives. What difference do their passages make, to the universe?
Time has no time for trifling over reputations. It's far too busy regulating itself, To bother with perpetuating Earth, in its heliocentric dimension,
Or with our scientific and poetic speculations — Imagine if time didn't exist or, if so, appeared in another guise, And we measured it in tons of weightless ashes,
In lightspans of contracting suns, In memories of the nearest and farthest stars, In the reincarnations of our hearts, in the randomness of silence.
For now, time tries to stay focused, on task, Doing what it can, to keep its own rhythms in order, By lashing us to its hour, minute, and second hands,
Letting us amuse ourselves with notions of immortality ("Forever," "eternity," "life everlasting," "tomorrow"), Leading us to believe that it's as nonexistent as death.
08/12/09
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