A slice of Time

Ah, time. A concept created by those who are obsessed with it. With the turning of those vindictive hands, our lives are run by the unseeing face of a clock. It is something we all have and never appreciate, never stop complaining about... too much, too little, too fast, too slow. Time is money, yet no amount of money will buy more of it. It doesn't keep, save, rollover, or wait. The river of time is flowing, ever flowing, and where do we fit in? I'd like to imagine myself leisurly floating along on my solitary innertube (yes, it's summer in the vision), but reality has me in an over-loaded life raft watching the fast approaching falls. Ha ha, women and children first, you say. But where else would I be if not in the churning pit of turmoil?

Sitting on the bank, watching, does not appeal. I can't even enjoy watching sports. Itchy fingers must work, must do!!! Call me ADD if you like, but I'm weird like that. My days are defined by my accomplishments, and even those are hard to recall by the time my head is hitting the hay. Gah! the first sign of aging! What next?

Because I have more than a ticking crocodile chasing after me and (consequently) my time, I'll leave off with a poem I wrote a while back. It fits the subject.



Tick, tock, clock; the rhythm of life never stops.
The journey unceasing, the hands
ever reaching,
the circular motions, likes waves of
the ocean,
are going around till the chime
finally sounds.

Tick, tock, clock; like water that’s spilling,
the hourglass filling,
the cup’s never brimming,
the tired hands spinning,
‘round a face full of wrinkles
and I s with a twinkle.

Tick, tock, clock; the whirling and winding
and spinning is blinding.
The gears are all rusting,
the springs are near busting,
you wind it too tight
and it doesn’t work right.

Tick… tock… stop. A tired antique finally makes
a retreat.
The hands at last quit, the clock
isn’t fit
to give one more chime. It’s all out
of time.



Hope you've enjoyed... Like the white rabbit, I've no time, no time at all.