Archive for the ‘Time, Gone’ Category

1879, Prang, Boston

For as long as there is a calendar,

which informs and dictates our thoughts and actions,

there can be no freedom.

Watching our dreams fly away…

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

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Chasy-slomanniy

Gradually,

slowly,

painstakingly,

forwards,

backwards,

footsteps.

In life’s serpentine cycle,

as months and years pass,

dissolving,

time comes to have little meaning.

Ultimately,

all clocks stop.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Time flies,

everyday people die.

Time and people pass away,

forgotten every day.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Time passes and context proves the undoing

of everything you hoped would be.

Like, this afternoon’s enlightening sentiment

buried by tonight’s depleted body

and spat-upon soul.

Still, the clock keeps ticking,

yes, the fucking clock,

the calendar,

people,

and various rodents,

continue,

conspire,

torment,

suck you dry.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

The days slide away.

Grandfather dies, as clock breaks.

Mentality screwed.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

My watch has stopped working,

but I’m in no hurry to fix it.

I’ve lost track of time,

and I feel fine.

Hours, days, months, years,

decades,

into obscurity fade.

All is history.

Thus, I can detach myself

and analyze

appropriately,

safe from the capricious dictates

of the elusive,

practically non-existent

present.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Koniec Gry (Game Over)

 

I remember when

(it seemed)

I had all the time in the world.

All the time in the world,

indeed,

until it ends.

(Childhood, time, the world…)

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

Sibir Rail Track, Taiga, Sunrise

 

My chance has gone,

the calendar and passport say.

“Did I ever actually have one?”

I sigh.

Fate has no reply.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

The fashionista proclaims that you can tell a lot about a man by his wristwatch, his chosen timepiece.

Like, he may not be able to afford an appropriate car to reflect his vibe, but with a well-chosen watch he can convey his hopes and aspirations, his essence and being.

The man-child looks down at his unadorned wrist and smiles,

wondering.

 

©SvetkaSamizdat

 

There’s always tomorrow,

until there isn’t,

one way or another,

but, still,

and moving,

however jarring,

even if blown away,

there’s always yesterday.

Rejoice!

 

©SvetkaSamizdat