665. THE UNENDING STREAM OF TIME

THE UNENDING
STREAM OF TIME
If I told you the carpenters were up on
the roof with their cellar boots on their heads,
would you question me? Believe me? Understand
my story? If I said to you that three gentlemen, NOT
of Verona, were making sleeves out of mesh in which to
hold water, would you be able to follow the concept?
No, then, probably not. It's always been like that for me.
-
The sky unfurls a fury above my head; a three-quarters
moon now juicing its light on down, a few shooting stars
dicing the night with their pillage and flight. They take
from us all they can, and keep going. Time has a schedule;
it is that, of which all these things follow and keep. Days,
being numbered, remain secluded and calm. It is we
who get excited, do the dance, run the frenzied circles.
-
I've always believed, staunchly and without fear,
in absurdity - a total and all-encompassing meaning
of life in which, simply put, nothing is. And nothing
ever was. We are raising standards, alone - self-created
banners all of our own coloration and design. We watch
these things quite carefully, as if, on some other plane,
we designed it all to matter and to never end. No, no,
alas. Time it is which runs out on us, seeping away
like water in that leaky mesh I'd previously
made mention of. That circle of wet on
the floor, below : that is what we are.