Publius

I don't really consider myself a poet or a writter so this is sort of out of character for me. I wrote this a couple of weekends ago for a very good friend of mine who will be leaving soon. Although it follows a mathmatical structure, it is free verse, sort of along the lines of Def poetry so that it is ment to be spoken aloud when read. I would very much like any comments or impressions that anyone has. Let me know what sort of feelings and emotions you see expressed or any other insightfull comments you may have. Just a quick note before you begin, I have been over this many times and I have the wording just like I want it, so if it seems choppy in some areas, it is intintional. Enjoy



‘What time is it?,” you ask, breaking the still morning air as we swing gently on the side porch;
‘Time,’ I reply, pointing to the dew-covered sundial resting in the yard, ‘Is relative.’

We are given a pre- measured amount at the moment of our birth, only the universe knows how much;
In our youths we squander it recklessly, not yet conscience of our mortality we rush to grow up,
become adults, fall in love, forgetting to enjoy our youthful innocence;
In old age, we fritter what little time we have remaining attempting to relive moments in time we have misplaced, recapture our youth, rekindle old flames and friendships, and retake opportunities lost long ago;
In between we cannot find the time to do those things that should be deserving of our time, and waste far too much time on those things that are not.

‘What time is it?,’ you ask, taking another sip of tea, freshly brewed in the bottle that has been warming by our side;
‘Time,’ I reply, pointing to the sun as it reaches the pinnacle of its journey through the deep blue sky, ‘is a dimension.’

Time binds each of us to an inescapable path that will eventually lead us to our final resting place;
Its linearality both provides us with the structure we need to endure its course, and entraps us in a life filled with regret for mistakes made and chances not taken;
Philosophers and poets attempt in vain to rationalize, realize, and romanticize those moments of regret in an effort to provide us a salve with which to ease our pain;
But time does not allow us to turn back its course, the path becomes overgrown, and despite our greatest attempts to deceive ourselves, in the end we are forced to face the truth, time wins out, runs out, stop.

‘What time is it?,’ you ask, with a slight shiver, the cool summer evening air has begone to set in as the sun starts to close its eye;
‘Time,’ I reply, pulling forth a worn photo we shared long ago, tilting it to catch the remaining light as I show it to you, ‘Is a perspective.’

Four bottles of cheap wine, relieving us from rationalization, opening our minds to a truer realization, that is void of any romantification, our innermost selves are revealed, Pandora’s Box is opened;
A pure moment in time, innocent of all self deception, hands, caressing the worries of self doubt and worry away, a bite, leaving a mark as a fading reminder in the days to come, teeth, puncturing the memory of the brain in a place never to be forgotten;
More than friends, not quite lovers, we break cultural restraints and morals forced upon us since our youth, we approach a line we dare not yet cross, for fear of the pain we may cause the others, yet the greatest love is when one puts all on the line;
The sun sneaks up, our time runs out, a shared past, one perfect night, an unknown future, time reveals no secrets, but this time there will be no regrets, no attempts to change or recapture the past, this was the one perfect moment in time.

‘What time is it?,’ you ask, the last rays of the sun disappearing as the moon begins its nightly
voyage;
‘Time,’ I reply, reaching forth my now aged arm, pulling you close to share our warmth, ‘it was the time of our lives.’