I try not to think in terms of time
because some seasons have lasted longer than people
and this world will gladly outlive you.
The clock is not your friend –
it swings its arms around in a wild attempt
to defy you – it ticks and whines like
a toddler throwing a tantrum and
it always gets its way.
The young and the old are on a conveyer belt,
a rotating assembly line belching you
into life and out of it again –
yes, I believe in reincarnation.
You are caught in the smoker’s lungs
of Time and it is perpetually
trying to cough you out.