Time

Imagine your final moment; you breathe out time. 

Nothing stops, you are not the moment.

Time is concentric swirls of nebulae in a blanket of space

or a Moebius strip.

Time doesn't move into something,

nor turn away from anything else;

it moves in every plane, mimicking its own movement in jaunty increments, 

every microsecond advanced to render a minute delay,

yet each microsecond advanced replicated in some opposite way

not just opposite or really opposite at all

but at the same time an exact replica of the initial movement, 

with bits careering off tangentially, unaccounted for splinters,

a tangent which defies even the inexplicability (and impossibility) of its

other movements, negating the throughput of the time it supposedly stemmed from.

Why do we pretend when we do not know?

Why do we pretend that we don't know?

When you see the walking old, hunched over,

eyes struck forward pre-empting obstacles,

you know their hopes have been crushed remorselessly,

and what remains is just the management of the body.

Dignity was a phantom and there was no need to hide.

There is no cure for loneliness;

although a wall-mounted television scantly audible in all four rooms 

can palliate as much as a cat or small dog.

More apposite aphorisms they'd deliver

if they had the heart to burst your bubble.

Our existence is a mere process of coming to terms with defeat, 

a stepping up to the mangle,

to a point where you cannot think of anything anymore that worked out how you'd liked

and you have given up, almost gracefully,

and motion pictures you click onto on the plane 

are no longer romantic but just ironic 

or skirt the issue altogether in a deliberately unsatisfactory manner.

(Mr Koenigsberg long gave up the ghost.)

You can fast forward a few years or deny it.

The time that is now is not one of many.  The time that is not now is language.

Time  is not a point on a long receding horizontal line; it is not a vector. 

Time is not stodgy like the movement of material things.

This moment is the moment that has always been; a pangaea.

To glimpse this is to destroy the illusion that is survival

which the body cannot endure. The body needs time, so it can die.