Tethered to the unyielding
cogs of time
by the threads tensile
yet unseen
The privilege of dividing
into past, future and present
that whose you know not
the beginning or the end
Could it be an attempt
to guise the spleen
over failed attempts
to make sense of life?
Who decided to have
seven days in a week
or hours twenty-four
to make a day?
Where does the past
become the present?
When does the future
cease to be itself?
From the eyes of eternity
the whole obsession
with keeping time
is a trifle un-needed.
When time ain't yours
to keep
as much as the firmament
not your fragment
of the (space) limitless
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