Time's folly

Bryn Evans • January 29, 2024

Chapter Tags: Literary Arts, Philosophy

What is time, if not something we’re always against?

We fritter, we squander, and spurn.

We plead for that back which we rashly dispensed,

And cling vainly to that which we yearn.

There is always too much when we beg it to pass,

Evenings spent willing morning to dawn.

Yet arrive the occasion desired, at long last,

It’s here—and already it’s gone.

The cruel march, ever-creeping, first slower, then faster,

From which no one, least us, is exempt.

Our short days overseen by a merciless master,

Who speaks with indifference, and acts with contempt.

So among this disorder, what’s left to reclaim?

Surely more than at first glance we’d notice.

Time’s beauty revealed through the frenzy and blame,

When our fortune, not fault, is the focus.

For there’s freedom in living by a withering clock,

Going round in this circular game.

Past paths which we know we can never rewalk

But memories brought forth all the same.

Exploring, discussing, travelling, sharing,

Joining hearts with a consonant soul,

Successes, mistakes here are equal in bearing,

Calmly yielding all beyond our control.

What is time? It is something we’ll always hold dear,

Singing proud in love’s rhythmic duet,

For in hours like these, only one thing is clear: 

When we love, there is never regret.