A question of time

How fleeting is this moment,

the passing beat of time

like a metronome ticking down

the seconds of my mind.

At times it is so soft

like a gently flowing stream,

at times it is relentless,

with the pulse of a machine.

Or is time an illusion,

a device made to control,

to make sense of

the unfathomable,

and bring comfort to

the unknown?

Does time really pass at all,

what happens to time

that flies? And where do

all the moments go

when time has passed us by?

Minutes come and minutes go and

before you can fully grasp,

the future is now

the present, and the present

has become the past.

The future looms ahead

like an open waiting

door, a threshold that only

leads us to the place

we were before.

That everlasting gap between

this moment and the last, the

never ending now that

exists before each moment

has passed.

Do I live only in this instant? Is that

all that is allowed? Or do

fragments of myself live on

in now,

and now,

and now?

How fleeting is this moment, the

strange snippets of our lives.

Is it time creating my thoughts right now?

Or is it my thoughts that create time?