Time is not a giver, nor is it a taker;
more a magician, a zero-sum fakir.

Holding the meaning in our lives, ever-lurching
as in life's railyards, forever searching.

First, one way then, as quickly, another
delivering dead to Charon, pink babies to mothers.

Everyday we see it, hear it and sense its brush,
though only once do we feel and taste its crush.

Like a robber baron, yet, it holds our passions;
letting go only in ephemeral fashions.

A silent bullet, ever-screaming, brought John's fate;
a mutating-cell nightmare set George's date.

A childishly innocent, upside-down frown
barrels through lives, strewing meaning around.

And us, left with options of which side to choose:
"do we win with death, or once gone, do we lose"?

Eight billion plus see a centipede as mankind,
sharing an existence comprised of pulp and rind.

When joy is pain and from this equivocal blend
ends are beginnings, and beginnings: the ends.

Baseless foundations of ever-pregnant thoughts,
appease our lost yesterdays, tomorrows sought.

Being used for fulfillment toward earthly dreams
and cast outward from within, no stitch or seam.

Bound covalently together, they forcefully spew
through this life and another, as if we knew

What's next? Who's there? Anyone at all?
anyone to catch us, or want to, as we fall.

03/30/2005

Posted on 03/30/2005
Copyright © 2024 Charlie Morgan