Inside of my space, another dimension.
Time is nothing but an invention.
A way to make the day, tick away.
A way to justify all the words I say. Relative to me as well as to you.
Relative to the feel of what life has shown me to do. There’s an unnerving, sinking feeling.
That it’s passing, slipping, seeking and stealing.
A void in which should be filled with creative, imaginative grey matter.
Has fallen dark with thoughts and only they matter.
Thoughts of how relative time may be, but I can’t help but to feel that it’s constantly escaping me.