Only time will tell, they say,
And that it heals all wounds,
That it is unstoppable second only to death.
It is relative.
It passes both quickly and slowly, depending
I suppose
On how it feels like passing.
We never have enough, but things start to go wrong
When too much of it gets on our hands.
They say it is short,
That it moves too quickly during the good times
And too slowly during the bad.
It's a cruel mistress (even though it's a father, too)
And is never right,
But is also always right,
And there are countless, useless things
We can do
To kill it.
By moving faster we can save it,
By ignoring it we can hold on to it,
In order to seize it we must deny it,
And apparently by stitching it
You can save nine of it (whatever that means).
I say time is a schizophrenic jerk,
An ephemeral vagrant with borderline personality,
A nagging bother with a clever, ill-timed (snicker) elusiveness.
But that makes sense, since apparently,
We invented it,
Even though we have no clue
Exactly what it is.
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