We mark time—
Time marks us.
We stagger blindly
Weighted down
By our own pretending.
Our skin begins to fold into itself
And pieces of us turn.
Our mind sharpens
But only in its ability to lie to us.
We own time
We lie to ourselves.
We will make our moments count.
But not this moment.
Or the next.
Eventually we put the collection
Of lost moments
Into a box filled with things we will never wear,
That we will swear never belonged to us.
Those we love fall away:
The veil parts and yanks them through
And we are left to hold vigil.
We lose ourselves
In all we’ve lost.
We decay and lose,
And what we once saw brilliantly
Dulls and dims.
As we collapse under the weight of time
We wonder of ourselves:
How has time bested us?
We were different. We would not decay
Or rot. Or cease.
We Are, without end.
We will defy it, we pretend.
We sow our seeds and hope
They will take root
And grow.
In the fragile, finite beauty that we wrest
From the naked wreckage of our reality
For a moment We Are, still,
And we are more than dust
Though we are dust already.
And time marks us
And we mark time.
