Time

What if time does not exist.

If time were just a peccadillo

of the human mind,

a by-product of conception,

a suggestion for the purpose

of reference,

but not really the be all

or end all we have come

to be dependent upon.

If time was an attempt

at a short cut of means

that backfired,

as if it was a superficial method

to serve

an impulsive purpose of need.

What if time was

a reflux of sorts

to accommodate impending fears

of the mind for then?

And time became

so commonplace

in a shared way

that we became rededicated

to that as method

as one of our primary

referential conscious means.

What have we usurped

by doing so?

Is it that we place ourselves

in time

and thereby isolate ourselves

from beyond the intention

of the use of time?

Has time usage

begged the question

for the immediacy of answers?

Does it provide for

a false sense of closure?

Did it breed

a false culture of reference

by naming everything

as independent

of everything else

only to have to come to

a place of integration

and rediscovery

for how everything

is really connected?

Are we the species of habits

to unlearn?

Have we made ourselves safe

but only by living

into a smaller world

of control

and self as illusion?

Is time really a form

of big brother

falsely claimed?

What if time had no length

and space had no volume?

What if they have

a secret alliance

of means and we

are on the outside looking in?

What if time and space

cannot tell the essential truth

because we are falsely asking?

We ask from

a pretend place in us.

We make assumptions

based upon our ability to agree

with each other and that is all.

We assume relevance

that maybe

is just a consciousness

of self-infatuation.

Where are we

ourselves, time and space

and not trapped

in the first person account?

How receptive is summary?

When did the universe persist

with conclusions as a means.

Is anything in nature symbolic?

We are impressed

with experience?

How did we get so isolated

as to make claims

from experience

that served anything more

than our isolation’s lament?

Time may not know of wounds.

Time may not have

considerations.

Time may have

the joy of no means.

Time may not have

a self-referential language

to declare of itself.

Time has no time

of definitive measure.

We have an appendage

called time.

We use it

in an operational manner

and it costs us dearly

in loss of connectivity.

It has come

between us and being.

Time is a verb

without language or tense.

Time has a surface

called now by us.

That now is the limitations

of being

we self impose

into the composition

of experience as means.

We are treading

in an ocean of now

for a breath of being

and there by forsake

the ocean’s means

to claim the experience

of swimming as we be.

Time is stoic laugher.

Time cannot steal or pun.

Time is all of motion set

to accord.

We are of it but claim

as other than.

We time trivial.

Time has no consequence.

We are but graffiti

of the conscious mind over time.

We choose cognizance

over immersion.

We claim we choose

as a measure of isolation’s means.

Time still bleeds through

all of our means.

If breath is our dialogue with time

then what do we speak?