Poems from the
Inside
Seek
the light of day . . .
Time is a four letter word
No rampart high may stem its ceaseless tide
for it has none - this is but illusion.
Eternal, it is its own dimension;
it cannot be packaged, boxed, or frozen.
Its label marks but now, and with each tick
of now, our fear: our remorseless decay.
And so we mark, measure, and mollify
ourselves, thinking we have just so and thus
much and yet we have none - it is a lie.
Tomorrow is and tomorrow is not
and never comes and so is known to us -
this lie ignored, that is, and yet is not.
The sun and moon, each passing seasons' tick,
the oceans' swell, each wave or numbered tide
confirms, and upon us our senses trick.
Doubt not my words - go seek from the condemned -
though even yet no goodness will append,
this truth they will aver: "there is no time."
© D. Winter
September 17, 2007
