Time is the realest thing in a human life
But no human can define it;
Everyone can feel it
But no one can touch it.
What was it like
Before Time?
The universe was simply
There?
Simply
Existence?
Or is the universe linked to time -
If they are one and the same,
There would be
Nothing
Without Time.

Time passes.
That is the only thing I know
For certain.
No matter how hard I cry
Each tear that streams down
Wishing, begging Time to stop
Only for a while
As Time evaporates the futile defiance
On my face and puts a sting in
My tired eyes and
Makes the wet tracks cold.
Second after second.
Unrelenting.
I'm running out of
Time.

Time consists only of moments.
Every moment is real and alive
When you are living it,
But Time converts to memory
And those living breathing
Moments
Are now
Gone
Except from your imperfect memory.
Vanished.
A small voice
Echoing in a dark tunnel
Just a moment
You cannot be sure even existed.
I can only be sure of now.
One day I might not
Remember today or
This
Moment.
The paradoxical instant where past
Meets future.
We live in that
Indefinitely small moment
Where who you were
Meets who you are making yourself to be
With the irreplaceable aid of
Time.

“Enjoy the silence”
But we whose blood pulses
in tempo and
Whose souls dance
with melody -
We do not know silence.
We never sleep.
We cannot enjoy the silence
or ever stop
Imagining.

Lavender water ripples
Onto the dazzling golden shore
Pushing sequins into the
Ruby air to crown the sunset

Deep green silk ribbons twist
Into palm trees and
Bright orange stones line
The shell of an elegant turtle underwater

Scarlet and silver puffy clouds
Rain shiny white pearls
That click as they hit the sidewalk
And fill the street with snow

We fear silence.
Silence is deafening -
Dissonant tones that echo
“Alone”
Without music, we are
Nothing.
Vivid reds and blues drain
into empty grey.
Glitter turns to dust
Rhythm slows
And I fade
away.

I used to hear them breathing
Their shiny black eyes would
blink at me
cry with me
understand my childish mumbling
listen with undying patience
and reassuring sewn smiles
as I rambled for long hours on end
sprawled on the floor holding them above me

Even though they never moved
I could feel their heartbeats pulsing in unison
the warm glowing light radiating from their souls
I was loved and safe
Their kind thoughts like blue and yellow ribbons
in a magical whirlwind around me
protecting me from the world

I remember being so angry when
I was told they weren't alive
I cried and screamed in torturous agony
the soft purple dreams
that were sewn into me
viciously torn from my heart
I heard the white stitches pop
the seams broken beyond repair
my soul was bleeding
but deep down I had already known

Now I can’t even hear them crying
when I forget their names
I stare with stinging red eyes into their faces
for long hours on end
but I don’t remember
I know we had fun together but
I will never remember
our fantastical adventures in detail
I will never hear the comforting steady rhythm
of their heartbeats again
Now they are only stuffed spirits and
cotton hearts

The vast ocean of a winter night
outside his frosty window

tattered maroon carpet
beneath aching wooden legs

thousands of worn pages
drowning the room
in a sea of delicate ink pearls

he sits at his tiny piano
shoes melting into the floor
puffing deep thought through

his kaolin pipe rubbed smooth
by the years
that have now become as hazy
as his gray smoke

he stares with tired eyes
like dying candles
across the musty room

Monet’s blurred pink lilies sinking,
bleeding into vivid purple ponds
kept alive only by an old wooden frame

he tries to find himself
but sees only Monet’s mud
in the mirror

the fuzzy residual memories
of a colorful dream

his eyes drift down to his own canvas
trembling at the familiar wrath of
his veiny, calloused hands
and he dreams once more