We seek to defy it with doctors and creams,
but beg for its mercy during really bad dreams.
We wish it to stop on a perfectly timed kiss,
on a perfect date night that ends with a wish.

This thing makes us wonder,
but mostly makes us wait.
Who thought it up?
Why do we wait?
Are we searching Time’s pockets for a timely response?
Are we waiting for Time to take time for us?
Are we waiting for a wrinkle,
like we wait for the bus?
And what would a wrinkle in time do to us?

……

Can I make up a wrinkle like I whip up a craft?
Does time wrinkle up when we’re looking back?

Or is it only our noses that wrinkle as we doze…. and repose,
thinking of what we’ve done wrong?

Well wrinkle away, my pig-nosed friends,
but time doesn’t care when you’ve gone ‘round the bend.
And time doesn’t flinch when terror grips your heart,
when you wish you could fly,
when a loved one is gone.

Time doesn’t love you,
in fact its quite cruel.
Time, man’s invention, is our own poison jewel.

It drags us to work in rusted out cars.
It ***** up the money from children’s coin jars,

Ashes to ashes and rust to dust,
Time is all knowing,
Or so we’re taught.

Time is our essence,
our incentive to go,
but why should we listen when time tells us no?
Time is imagined.
We made it all up.
Time is of man,
and never of God.

The best times in life are when time disappears,
because time means nothing when your perspective is clear.