The thin transparencies of yesterday
are lost in time’s relentless sea,
superimposed on the images
that we believe we see
We walk the abstract path of time
We are thrown on a one way road
We stare outside in windowless rooms
We cannot crack the code
Time is certain and definite.
Time does not exist.
Time is a collection of the infinite.
Time dies with us and isn’t missed.
The images die with us
mean that a part of time has died
The washed up shells of bygone days
are swept away by the ceaseless tide
Separate and infinite
like grains of sand on a lonely beach
time loses its distinctions
which are lost or held out of reach
Time is not a clock
Time cannot be wound and changed
The only key is memory
The child that time estranged
Time itself is immortal
but dies as it takes its first breath
Tomorrow is swiftly yesterday
It faces a certain death
Time is a concept too huge to grasp:
an infinity of dead-end illusions,
a never-ending picture-reel,
a web of worthless confusions
We are a tiny part of time
and time itself is fey
Another window, another view,
another dusk, another day