Time is a human concept
Not always shown due respect
By we who put off until tomorrow
That which we should do today.
Then, when tomorrow
Comes we say
“I shall do that on another day”,
While old Father Time
Smiles his enigmatic smile
And whispers, “you borrow
Tomorrow and today”.
And we, heeding not the clock
Continue to play
Our lives away.
The hands trace
The clock’s face
Then
, Go round again.
Progress. Yes?
Or no?
The hands go
round, and round
A Transhumanist heard a clock tick
And said “time I shall lick”.
And the clock said, “progress,
Regress, progress, regress”,
As the hands did trace
The clock’s round face
From beginning to beginning,
Forever spinning:
“Progress, regress, progress, regress . . .”.
And the Transhumanist said,
Nought, for he was long since dead.
The temperature has dropped.
The pendulum chops
Second upon second away.
As I write.
I think
On how we did drink
And at lovers play
That night
In the warm pub.
Oh how I would,,
That ’twere yesterday.
Excited sighs,
Slowly dies.
Tick tock
Of clock.
Lovers they
Can not stay.
I keep
The key
For a time
In a tray.
Will people seek
For the key
When I go away
And, perchance, finding this rhyme
Think on old Father Time
And me?
When the TV does cease
Peace
In the hypnotic
Tick tock
Of the clock
Takes hold.
Tel me not
That time is a despot.
True the wise and the fool
Both must obey his rule,
But the wise accept
While many a fool has wept
At the swing of his rod
That reduces all to sod.
The TV
Can make us free
For a while from the thought
That we ought
To heed the pendulum’s swing
That does bring
Our spring
To summer and thence
To autumn when those of little sense
Dye their hair
(Although
They know
That the winter snow
Lets none go.
