Time is the shelf life of the irrelevant,

the reckoning of the unimportant,

the marker of the finite.

Sixty counts of self-imposed death sentences,

illusory as matter, constant as dreams.

For that which matters is not subject to time.

Not the love of mother, not what is sublime.

Not looking in your eyes, not bliss.

Smiles are ageless.

Love does not ask permission to exist.

For that which is needs no reason, no measure and no consent.

Life, the one with capitals

experienced in full presence

does not dance tick tock.

To love, time is but a leaf

teased by the wind.

By tuttysan © 2013

Photo: Historic Riverside Public Library, IL.