Time is a master I could do without.
Cold and inexorable,
a thief of what is rightfully his own:
that which I have come to love.
Home and space and constellations of people,
While the stars stay put
for generations to wish on.
Time singes even the best-loved
until it all turns to smoke–
I choke and sputter for lack of air–
smoke drifting away into memory…
What a strange feud we have
with the one who gives meaning to moments!
A boundary-line of flourishing;
Foundational, like Light, Sky, Earth,
good and right and necessary.
Eternity separated into
Interpreted by the governing bodies,
heavenly in their own right, yet fixed
into forward movement.
In all this there is no ill intent!
Time feels more like a thief than a guardian.
What was it like before our estrangement?
When you stretched on for eons…
endlessly joyful moments strung together
like pearls around our necks,
each untainted and perfect and holy–
How many moments were strung
before we made an enemy of you?
When we come into glory, will we find you redeemed?
Or will we find that all your thievery
was merely taking back the mistaken deeds
of sickly ‘gods’, now perished in dust,
risen healthy and whole.