gripping times they were;
when they held me in the palm of the hour
i felt time wave me over
as i planned to pass it by.

we surfed here
      surfed to
and from
and away
like our seconds were endless
and certainly independent of day

to please myself i try to remember time in my palm than me in its.
cause its clutch sure killed me first in my wits
but i always feel that fake shell i have around this
construct crack little by little
when the staleness of my illusion starts to go brittle.

as i sleep soft nights away and outlive the hard days
dwelling on a stack of banal chores
too convinced as it is that humans are a face and life its pores

too desperate to be filled? wishing to be killed? (made for it, too.)
to cut off time, which so readily breaks.
to give more of it up, which the universe so readily takes.
till we cut it off till we reach the end of more
till we finally stop waking up from this forever chore

when we let these days go we do pretending they're wholly ours
and when we let seconds go we do pretending they're holy hours;
you give me a minute back of my time... sometimes sixty, too.
with every two seasons you say spring forward
with every two seasons you say fall backwards

is it what i know to be partial devour
when zones don't change the seconds but they change the hour

    then we stand ourselves only as we fill ourselves to the brink, till false fulfillment come
in the color of root in the color of frond
in the color of favored relationship and forced-on bond
when the grey colored it all a different picture
when we combined optimism with realism in strange hazy mixture
when we drunk till numbness permeated bone
when we drunk till white noise recaptured all pitch and tone
till the fastest hour passed till the
slowest hour swallowed
and till we fell deep into this
aging hollow