s there such a thing as
time; measuring out of
moments, where some
thing concrete is made

and holds fast, regard
less of whether we are
aware of it, or if we
are awake or sleeping?

Time can drag through
seeming eternity, or
vanish in an instant at
the moment of sleep.

Where does it go, and
did it ever exist when
its form and shape are
so unreliably existing?

Time mocks, consoles,
weeps with us and
rails against itself, in
endless, full motion.

And it is silent beyond
the slow ticking of its
heart, which beats in
rhythm with our own.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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