What if we could stop the clock? Or
divert those ominously marching hands
down a rabbit hole spiral of clock faces,
let them eat away at an infinite mobius strip,
an ouroboros-esque monster,
while we continued to live
unafraid. Existing only adjacent
to the now-pointless continuation
of hours and days.

If we could build an end to time,
just to circumvent The Ends
time would otherwise deliver,
what meaning would be left?
What purpose in our endeavors,
in how we spend our metered seconds,
if there are no earthly limits
to impress their importance?
What delight in the fleeting foxglove,
what wonder in early years of life,
both lived and witnessed?

The power of a moment
relies on its brevity;
on the promise that another instant
will replace the old with novelty.
Without time’s Ends, its Beginnings
would also be lost.

We love because one day we won’t,
due to their absence or our own.
We cannot stop or slow the clock,
our age progresses ever forward—
never deviating from its steady advance.