The Misconception of Time
Eric Bonholtzer
Overrated clock hands strike
Holding signs.
A bell whistles
And yet someone else
dies
Amid sounds of muted joy
hopeless white noise and
static lines of alibi spewing liars.
The little hand races the large
To see who can finish the circuit first.
They are tricky little devils.
It slips without even trying to stay, still
Others try to catch up to the white rabbit
Who has long since decided to bury its head in the sand
And hope for the best as it left the race
A pile of bones waiting for new flesh.
Others fit these categories: Out of print books,
never printed manuscripts, a car at the shop
just waiting for that long overdue tune up
A new timer belt or odometer
A speedometer doesn’t really matter that much when you stop to think about it.
High way, free way, low way,
They’re all the same.
Stop.
Go.
Stop again if you want to look, and take pictures.
Of that ticking, ticking of radio and watch both.
Get out.
Emit progress in your walk.
The backward progression
Moving forward again
It’s time.
All at the restless pace of progression.
