Time past, is time controlled.
As forms become things
Distinct, yet malleable to our delusions
Connections, knotted together
Snake mouths clamped to tails. Does that not fit?
Or does it fit too well?
Time is not death, but it is its curator,
Yet the two may be false gods
For the unknown is also immutable,
And facts are not truths.
Time is an unreliable narrator
Who we parse, to try to understand
The haphazardness of existence
Time is the blank slate
On which we try to impute meaning
Yet through time, our thoughts
And memories stay alive
As we are born
And reborn, in encounters.