We could live outside of time:
its ghostly hands slip through our arms
incapable of holding us
or bearing weight of wait denied.

From birth we learn to honor clocks,
those things of gears, and plastic, glass,
their hands which twitch in increments
around a center never there.

Time rules the rulers of the world,
reserves a secret of its own:
at best it reigns those minds at rest
and machines which have no sense.

But trace the shadows minutes cast
toward strings of phantom puppeteers
pulling at your moments so
you're moving how they make you go.

To cut those strings, to end this play,
we just dismiss despotic day:
refuse to give into its fears
and live beyond pretense of years.