-the unofficial alternative to understanding time-

with time on my hands

I'd decided to write a late-night poem,

the last of the day.

time, in its deliberate attitude

hung around at the table tidying-up

leaving trace amounts of itself

which confessed to its presence.

there's something inherently wrong

with the persistent nature of time.

it appears at the front door

disguised as a guest.

it waits at the wedding reception

for the pre-doomed happy couple,

and since its beginning, it decomposes

everything in its wake.

one should approach time with caution.

it holds grudges, imposing severe penalties

when disrespected by waste.

but in the here and now, time belongs to me;

it stays by my side. it lives here.

it will die with me. it's personal.

it has my eyes.

in time I retired to bed,

leaving notations of the poem on the table

for my early consideration.

in the light of morning  I read what I'd jotted-

down the night before,

and although the table was otherwise orderly,

the notes for the poem left upon it were a mess,

and it was now left to me to put a permanent end to it.

time said.