Seven Minute Poem

Time is running.
One minute has gone already
To where old minutes go to die.
Time is running
Like water out of my fingers
And the words they contain
Are stains upon the page.

Ink no longer matters
In this age of metaphor,
In this age when what we seem
Is all we need to be.
Time, however, is running
Like the strides of a marathon.
Rhythmic and agile,
It courses in the beat of our hearts.

Time is running away
With what we hold most precious.
Our intentions are good
But full of themselves,
As if doing and being
Were rights conferred on us
Instead of accidents of fate.

Time is running out.
I cannot write another line.
I try but time has wrung me dry.

© BH 2001

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I really did write this in seven minutes. I timed it. A bit anal, I know but there it is. It got me in the end.

[2017 - added an image from a recent self-portrait. Took me an hour to create. What does that tell you about time?]