Time is a broker of clichés
bent on summation’s reward.
Time is a picayunish detail
first murmured off of a headstone
for the D.O.A. of now.
Time is the inevitable strip search
of commitment
when doubt is the checkpoint.
Time is the bottleneck of scarcity
producing a refined echo
as this very instant of awareness.
Time is the roll bar of importance
on the vehicle of expediency.
Time is a dyslexia of how now
is not a brown cow.
Time is a reductionist's excuse
of, “I’ve got to go”
at a sandbox fantasy play party.
Time is the exposed closet
of a clotheshorse
abruptly turned nudist and gone.
Time is the secretive concubine
nature of space,
always salacious
yet constantly supportive.
And lastly,
time is a myopia of breath
personally realized
in one’s own close quarters
that self-attention
brings into frame.
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