Time, time, time

I have a crazy,
crazy need for time.¹

Nothing more predictable,
more intoxicating
and asphyxiating.

Nothing more democratic,
more pervasive
and mechanic.

Rock bands sung of time,
Atmos clocks celebrate it –
Technology beats it,
a little more everyday,
and yet!
Yet, it escapes,
me, you,
and me again.

I can’t move it,
rewind it,
scan it,
expand it or
renew it.

It works against me,
my ambitions,
my dreams.
A new fixation,
a perfect illusion,
but never,
time is within reach.

No understanding,
He is relentless.
Not pretending,
He is perfectness.

More, more, more,
of the same thing,
of you,
of seconds,
of days,
is what I need.

But do you exist?
Do we invent you,
hate you,
admire you?
Elusive muse,
we measure you
while you laugh,
as you know,
we do not measure
performance, moon phases,
hours and quartz vibrations.
This is the perfect illusion,
we measure,
not your passage,
but the countdown
to our demise.

¹ first stanza (and the poem’s form) after Pablo Neruda‘s wonderful “Ode to Common Things” (this illustrated collection of the Odes is a must for Neruda’s enthusiasts, along its sibling)