I have always been running from time
From before I was born —
After I die it won’t change
I hide from him but he always finds me
Melting my face
Weakening my bones
Painting my sable mustache grey
I wish he would leave me alone
There are greater men to haunt than me.
When I do nothing
They say I am killing time
But he does not die
I do nothing all the time
And still he thrives
Rusting the wheelbarrow
Peeling the paint off the gate
Wilting the lilies
Turning babies into old men
Pure mischief.
He should find something else to do
Like turn the sun purple
Or erase the pock marks from the moon
Make Betelgeuse a supernova
Convert the ocean into soda pop
And Antarctica to ice cream…
Maybe just give us a break for a while
Say a hundred years or so
Where things might stay the same.
Do it in summer time
Or in the fall when all the leaves are golden
Nothing ages
All things chilling
No one’s time runs out
No deadlines
No time sensitive obligations
Each day the sun rises and sets
And it only rains at night
We would have the time of our lives—
This time is killing me.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.
Loubert S Suddaby poems 