poetry

Time Deceives

Those little glowing numbers set in the dashboard inspire a false sense of control. Hour after hour. Each new destination, every sliced out moment. Ticking clock. 58, 59. Right on time.

Schedule and priorities paste together daylight minutes. Long and short, early and late. Cubes of purposeful movement build the Monday Tuesday Wednesday. More not less. Fast not slow.

Every logical moment built on something before. Brick by brick cemented in the hope of a better plan, a better life, a better world. Successful. Optimal. Productive. Filling up all the time.

One evening, time stopped. Paused in the breaths of a vision. Quiet storm. Empty blocks. Hollow days. Deceptive seconds. Enlightening darkness. Nothing new. Begging for meaning.

Unnaturally suspended, the clock can’t do other than wind back up. Digits count on. Click tock watch. Spacing out the frantic pace. Moving forward. Because time has not stopped.

But the breath and the minute now stand at odds. Whispers of a world beside time. Passion that exceeds the present. Sadness that chokes out a fine today. A conversation not bound to be answered. A trusted friend that may never be.

Time deceives. That there is no time for anything other. Time forgets. That there is loss and love already pressed into our being. Time numbs. A desperate search for what is good.

Time lies. It’s too late.

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