Time bides us,
as we are a figment of its imagination,
and if not for time, we would not exist,
as if time were speeded up, we would disappear,
a blur of light too insignificant to notice.
Do we then exist at all,
so dismissed from time’s hold,
as it marks our passage, as we see it,
yet, no marking, no passage,
and we a glimmer of thought, passed by?
Time then is our only connection to being,
the rest conjecture,
a fantasy hologram of reality
that we convince ourselves real,
and contrive a life as if it were.
Delusion is a human life,
reflections of thought too limited to have much meaning,
just reflections of colour and form,
pronounced real for our pleasure,
forged for our peace of mind and leisure.
Ten percent of our brain capacity, utilised,
with barely control over our predilections,
let alone body, mind and environment,
as we are primordial specks in a vast sea of life,
a fleeting light in eternity.
And who’s to say we’ve been,
when planets gone and swallowed
by an ever-changing, expanding universe,
where suns live long in time,
yet a blink in eternity.
What mark will we leave, upon life,
when time itself is all that keeps us here?
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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