Time,
Neither an abstract essence but rather,
A selection of nearby numbers,
Numbers close in proximity,
Somehow its fighting logic
With a semi-persistent yet broken insanity, that are, that is-
Numbers.
Yet,
When bridges of illusive time crumble around me,
Time moves not by a number,
But from moment to moment,
The day a blank page,
The absence of a list perhaps.
I take away the hours,
I take apart the atoms,
And find myself in an ocean of space,
Not certain where I end and another thing begins,
But certain that I am following light and moon.
Such is grace.
