The passage of time
is our entire life ignited,
flashing before our eyes
as key buzzwords
in decades of recall.
The look-back at our lives,
full boxcars of years,
stuffed one-car garages of months,
to do lists for each week,
crammed closets of each day,
the fine print of instructions
for each hour,
appliance usage by the minute,
and diamond ring’s facets flashing
as each second across our eyes,
each single cell’s division
within a nanosecond
inside our bodies
and all the atoms of our being,
non-locational, really,
in the mass of our self,
yet without time.
We have conjecture
for these temporal renderings,
experientially taken up
as our animated interpretives.
Quaint are these renderings,
these memories as our muse.
With clipped visuals
across our mindscapes,
we humbly exude these passages
as the passing of time.
Honoring our illusions,
exhibitive as our means.
We, each of us separately,
living as this sweep-hand.
We are these clock-face sequentials,
so time honored,
as with our lives remembered
now, as if our dreams . . .
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