Sublime progression–
time–
an inordinate obsession.

Strings of memories,
some sweet, some dark,
some vacant unremarkable,
created in its wake,
only to be relinquished
to the uncharted, undistinguished
backwaters
of a tormented, languished mind.

Vanquished time,
its unending approach
allows hopes
facilitates dreams,
allows the promise of what might be;

its interminable passing
creates memories,
realizes regrets
dashes dreams,
brings to fore the sorrow
of what might have been.

This sublime progression
never slows, stalls, stops,
never leaves us in suspension
(except as frozen in those
dark, sweet, vacant memories).

Time’s illusion,
our confusion,
is that time speeds up
maliciously dashing more dreams,
fulfilling fewer hopes,
subversively undermining
our intentions,

leaving us behind with
our regrets.

Our regrets:
defining decrepit age,
signifying the life that
won’t ever be complete,
unlike our dreams,
the hallmarks of youth,
the province of a life
to be completed.

Conversely, time’s gifts,
to take the frozen memories
from its wake,
sweeten the sweet ones,
diminish the darkest of them,
and to help forget
those in between:
the vacant, unremarkable
in those uncharted backwaters
of our being.

or to forget our dreams.

I’ll confound time’s confabulations
defy time’s prerogative
and exercise mine.

I will not allow time
to take away my dreams
dash my hopes,
abandon youth,
relinquish myself to
the vicissitudes of age.

I’ll maintain that youth
perilously clinging to
my outlook on a life
that will yet be complete.

I ponder this obsession,
time’s progression.

Sublimity be damned
this pondering only succeeds
in progressing time.