This is my friend Dona Lou Pearson's latest poem. The author needs no introduction and neither does this poem. - poetheart 12/30/00
The theory of time is that it is a line
Stretching straight from
Some point A to point B
Or from here to Infinity
Or into Eternity
But I have a thought
That time is not,
But a circle or convolutions
In strange revolutions
That touch in and out
Back and forth, round about
That it cannot be held to rules
It makes us all fools
Time is larger, and deeper
Further, steeper, than my thoughts
Or yours, but we’re in it
Each day, hour, minute
Trapped in Time’s grasp
Held fast
Slipping through space
In our time, in our place
Then time marches on
Or is in its mad race
Or stands still, while we run
Ahead of the Gun
That Time holds to each head
("Time is up, ha! you’re dead")
And as we try to outwit
It
With each Time "saving" scheme
Life Is But A Dream
And we dream as we go
Of forever, but No,
Time is the measure
Of the life we should treasure
A guage of age
Though we rage
In our impotent fury, we pass
When the sand in the hourglass
Is all gone...
The clock ticks on.© 2000 by Dona Lou Pearson