“The clock keeps ticking, time silently slides away”…
Evaporating water, on an arid desert day;
But, luckily - we are a time machine!
This ability to transition –
A play DISSOLVES TO: a new scene;
To correct our latest edition –
The errors revise, and update what`s seen.
“Time is intangible”…
So, why then, do we say it passes?
Like an individual
It is: the sum of ones` cognition;
And with each most recent addition,
The old value – the new tally surpasses.
Our DNA is passed along.
The personal genetic history,
Each generation, is handed down –
A preliterate bards’ song.
In the pool, pieces of “we” are found;
Floating in those waters is our story –
Driftwood left in Neptune’s territory.
The ages and seasons are – regularly shifting,
They spin (in eternal inertia) as if: a top;
Still revolving, it (all) has yet to stop or drop;
The universes` fundamental force, it`s resisting.
This poem may lack the feel
Of what is perceived as poetry:
No flowers hiding in a happy field,
Few clever metaphors are concealed;
It`s more like discourse of philosophy.
But…
To this poet, the encapsulation of beauty
Is: every experience (occurring instantaneously)
Which belongs, to the reader… each conferee.
So to a degree, we travel on a timeline, which extends continuously;
Forwards and backwards, ancestors and descendants, and us
eternally.
Composed By: A.D.
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