years ago I had a theory about time,
that it was much like a standing glass of water,
sitting on a quiet oak table
ringed with the wear of the world,
and for each human
a seperate glass,
a seperate table,
unique in their own tear and make.
The theory persisted that time
was the water held in place,
fluid and ever slightly moving by the glass
which was, in its own way,
a liquid as well
like pitch but slower
without the tarry consistency
or the unclean connotation
And I and you and we all, we travelers,
were drops of ink,
pulled and spread by the weight of gravity through each glass of water,
time did not move us,
we moved simply through time,
as if we were tripping over our own feet
finding the asphalt with our palms
we diluted as we went,
changing the water as it pushed and pulled
us in nearly incalculable ways.
Entropy in a glass of water.
That theory tends to twist freely
into my heart from day to day,
as if I am reminded that the truth is
only the truth when you believe it to be,
only if you truly need it then and there.
waiting for work,
it brings a soft ink-stained comfort
to my all-too-loud mind.