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Imperfect Time

There never has been a Present: at the

moment of its birth it ceases to exist.

Only the Past is viewed. It’s child, the unknown Future,

wrought of paths travelled or those wisely eschewed.


What is Now? Not existing, unseen nor contained

it is tomorrow’s yesterday, yesterday’s tomorrow,

fleeting by by like a March wind. Swirling

as a whirlpool sucks itself into oblivion.


Time we only borrow. Days and years cultivate the decades

wasted by thoughtlessness, living for the Present -

though it does not exist. The Past has gone, it’s dead.

Its purpose no longer pursued in life’s ebb and flow.


The Future cannot be seen. Hopes influence actions.

Memories of yesterday chasten, give direction.

The Present, unfinished, imperfect, foreshortened,

disappears: feigning feeble circumspection

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