Time.
Wispy, sugary, gentle time.
Floating through the air.
Long afternoons in the sun,
Gentle warmth on my legs as I lie.
Time floats by like dandelion seeds
On a windless day.

Time.
Sticky, rotten, putrid time.
Dripping through my fingers.
A day in the car,
Breathing the same air you have for hours.
Time slides down my limbs like a slug
In the early hours.

Time.
Bubbly, hot, electric time.
Reaching to touch– for a second.
Final bows,
A pure high that flows through every vein.
You blink, and then it's over,
Existing solely in memory.

Time.
Sharp, tight, abrasive time.
Sitting heavy on my chest.
Yelling, quick movement.
It closes in, overwhelming, stifling.
When I finally breathe, it's much later,
Like my sanity, it's gone.

Time.
Moving, fluid, dancing time.
Existing without a thought.
It moves on, when we don't.
Day, by week, by month, by lifetime.
I observe it passing, a train out the window,
And I wave.

The green tea is hot
As my tongue touches
and licks
the surface.

The steam floats off with its flavor
and burns the tip
and I then put it down
to mind myself
of other things.

But the day is cold
With the trees bending uneasy
And the windows wailing
with their cries.

My feet are cold
As I sit crossed
holding them close
to my thighs.

But still nothing goes
on inside
But still nothing goes
on in my life.
The hot tea I pick up
as I settled it down
a few seconds ago.

“Oh its hot…”
I look outside.
Where did you go.

All present in the stream of time,
Connected they build a line, a river which flows uninterruptedly,
The here and now, is the future of a pasts dream, a wonderous reality,
It is the futures past, the memories recorded within the depths of it
Gravity distorts time, causing it to slow down till it's stopping point lensed from a black hole, lurking within shadows of remorse in space,
Fished out from the sea of passing events, it keeps flowing, but now it does so while not including the fallen one who embraced a blackhole,
Time only knows one path, straight ahead with no slips and turns,
The present is the pasts future and what was thought to be possible,
It is the little wealth every living being possesses yet it is overseen and forgotten, until the moment of ones death drives gladly near,
From the womb to the tomb, drowning within the waves of a temporal lengh, the event of an entity's existence and its period.
A pace for an allotment, given from the complaints of an worldly life,
Spend it well, unlike the spring we cannot turn the tide, recycle again!
But for that matter the world of dreams holds a sweet embrace to all,
After all, you don't need to die in a dream.

~ Umi