Time
is a fragment
of the infinite.

A finite flake
on the snowy
dunes of eternity.

We carry time
in our limited mind
and cause the vastness
of stillness to become

a constricted thought ticking
in our world of spacial divides
that appear between the matrix
of the construct we create unknowingly

as we are hypnotised by the rhythm of sensory input,
interpreting the background as protruding names
of the forgotten original and nameless being.

Such is the beating of time,
while your soul longs for you to watch
the clock walk past its own beginning
and remember that which precedes its own creation,
the maker of his mechanical mind and frame of construction.

I am that little cuckoo leaving my own bodily frame
to signal my craziness among all the time watchers,
so that they too can realise they’re insane and wake up
in a sane world beyond the fragmented time puzzle
they keep trying to solve by adding more pieces,
while they lack the true peace that solves it all.

That piece of peace within and beyond it all,
the flake resting as a snow bead on the peak,
linking all our stringed necklaces
into one ancient web of nests
where the eagles and hawks
come to dance and dine,
pray and gaze.