the mantra of time

 

the constant mantra of time,

every heart beat honors,

every breath feigns interest.

the mind is subject to the drone of it.

daylight lobbies,

while night time is casual. 

nature is more dedicated to the religion.

there is precision

but not ongoing exactitude.

we are all the stepchild, 

the hand-me-downs.

we live from the stolen diary call memory.

with time no sentence is ever complete.

the story is totally made up,

yet we only know versions for ourselves.

with time, there is a front stage and a back.

we only consider acting,

never the role of corpse 

or pre-birth readiness.

never, in a million years, 

is an insider time-joke,

humans don't get.

if time was a sound,

like a very loud constant silence,

then maybe we would 

more clearly understand.

time doesn't have wounds or defects,

not interested in first alerts either,

could pass as environmental 

and does not care in the least,

holds our understanding of all this 

as hostage.

and few ever escape.

you'd think that we just invented time,

to have a means to process, 

have thoughts, do memory, 

have a storyline in some sense of sequence.

but nobody in the right mind,

would believe that to be true.

and so we keep to our muttering

and time easily honors the all of that,

as if.

just saying . . .