time as a passage

time is the measurement of life. it exists nowhere beyond awareness of it. a road rests ahead of me, full of hardship and trivialities; swimming in this foreign yet familiar reality.

how is it that the sand, which falls to the bottom of the hourglass, has settled and become compact? that the noise of life dulls, and grains fall into place like a farmer’s chores. i am running out of time. i am running out of life. i am betrothed by youth and destined to become its widow.

doom lingers by my door, it hovers inauspiciously. it may be no reaper but it knows something of my fate. it knows something of what awaits. only i can scythe the crops, sow seeds of neglect, and let the weeds feed on everything that’s left. the jackrabbits kill the cattle and the jackrabbits eat of the grass in my shadow.

there is a shallowness to everything i do, the depths of the ocean call me to sweet home. oh, what is it I do here, in all my false glory? lay on my throne of plastic ivory and exist so quietly? know what i know so mindlessly? it is as though i have forgotten how to move, be moved; how to choose, not to be chosen; to grow, not still as stone. i am horribly languid, with an appetite for bones, not language. to speak to the soul, not the vacation of ego and loops of phases. the moon is full then empty, earth teeters for an infinity. i am placed so uniquely and so complexly in a land of elusive fragility by the nature of imposed importance, by illusion and lordship. what is it i truly worship?