time, as a mirror, is all about lip service,
the invisible nag, preaching about priority and prestige
a father figure, dancing-hunting as the shadows of the day
the clock facial replies, in a stoic stare down pose
time, waving the prayer flag against a nondescript sky
as the saint, whose presence lives on in a timely manor
the invisible whiteboard upon which numbers compel you
the parental figure that stays nameless in staging the
action
time, ceaselessly circumventive and slyly circuitous
humbly invoked as a medium of your life’s measure
that by which logic and wisdom have latent opportunities
where vintage gains in stature and harvest comes into pride
time, that makes a mule trot out as memory’s journey
that gives fame a stage for an animated outcome of worth
that steals from the impatient and displaces the outdated
produces a herd of occasions that ride without measure
time, dressed up in schedules and impersonating as stints
the weep or the joy, spellbound in reflections
moreover, the ordering force of logic’s account
and the illusion that gives memory permission to thrive
time, that gives birth to the concept of sequence
the overwhelming permission for reverie to have a life
the compelling demand for retention to have response
lastly, time, the dimensional illusion conceptually
dignified
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