So they go by
the strictly regimented hours,
enforcing imprisonment,
daily restrictions.
Trapping; stuck in
a building through the waking hours.
One's only escape becomes
the night.
The unwaking hours.
It is not late, it is simply a
different phase of the
day.
11:00? Bed by eleven O'clock, you say?
Time is an illusion, especially night.
The taboo.
We all must sleep by the darkness
and wake by the light.
But what happens
when you wake in the night
and sleep in the morn?
Shift sleep to be awake in
the party hours.
How meaningless do the hands
of the clock become, now, oh yes
they do.
Time is irrelevant.
A farcery.
A lie.
Much the same way
as fiction.
Both are illusions trying
to be truth. But
fiction gathers
attention, belief.
While time is
shunned, bunted to
the side. People
use it to measure
their lives, compare
themselves to one another.
"Oh, I'm eighty-four this
Thursday, in fact."
"What a shame, I'm only
eighty-two."
Which one won that, eh?
Some may say, since
really its all down to
opinions and interpretations,
that the older person
was more respected. Lived longer,
she has, seen the world.
Been around, experienced alot.
Older. Wiser.
Or is young better?
More fresh. Youthfulness
causes envy from
those sad-acts wishing
for their teen years
to revisit them if just
for one night. Sad-acts...
does that make young
people sad-acts too?
Obviously they want to be
young, enjoy life.
So nostalgia is not
as pedaphilic as you
might think.
Time is irrelevant.
As much of this
poem is irrelevant.
Jumpy. It. Is.
Dis. Jointed.
Keeps breaking off on a tangent,
and then another.
The key is to
let go.
Forget where it was
going. Go where it
takes you. Let your
time dwindle away
even as you sit
stumped, wondering
where this poem is
going.
Just know one
thing, stranger,
keep it at the
front of your mind.
Your hours pass you
by. What will you
make of them?

Carpe Diem