Apple Magnet by Peter Gidlund

Apple Magnet by Peter Gidlund

If eyes are the windows to the soul,
what if you are blind, or you simply have blinds?
Do you not have a soul,
or do you not feel the sol?
Time is dripping away like a faucet,
it is never wasted, but simply drained away
to some insignificant wading pool,
utilized by the jaded, jade pond scum,
irreverent of the clamorings of your claims,
the stingings of your stains,
and the bounty of your banes.
Time is from the great Mount of the Steed,
a horse shaped peak, hidden in the depths
of the vast unconquered and undiscovered.
It melts into experience, and melds into thoughts.
It evaporates into the aether while transmuting
into glory, greed, pain, and exuberance.
It's tracks are printed into the minds
of the debtless and deathless, simply
mulling like quicksand, swallowing screeches and wails,
ending the agony of virtue,
leading souls through the labyrinth of boredom.
There is not much time for Time,
always scurrying around, never having a
moment for coffee or tea, never
having a moment to take a nap.
Time never rests, and that is its
modesty, as well as its hubris.
Time is for the hopeful, but not those that hope.