6 am was never a friend of mine. But now that I have all the time, I can’t sleep. Thoughts chase, birds sing, the building talks to me in strange and wonderful ways. 

“time is a wicked stealer when you’ve been trapped among the ruins” a line I was considering for my book “Life in the Times of Coronavirus.” It was keeping me up at night. So you want to write? Prepare to be haunted awake or asleep by characters that don’t exist. Words that you’ve never heard or don’t understand. Lines so apt, but are they mine? They start as whimsy and pervade, ’til 6 am arrives again.

I had to find a line to replace “time is a wicked stealer.” 

As much as I love it I’m sure I saw it somewhere and it’s not mine. My words must be true and even though they’ve all been said before, I must wholeheartedly believe they originate from me. 

So a simple sample: “Time stalks”

or perhaps complex:

time is a waft of ambrosia for the starving

time is a cadre of characters false  

time creates a heyday for hope

time inveigles only to be stolen

time a susurrus that never ceases

time doesn’t respect your plans

times repose among the ruins

time chooses, ready or not 

and marches to that steady inexorable beat, 

a riot of pink, 

through a stifling heat or freezing still, 

time doesn’t feel, or heal, or steal, 

time just exists and there’s never enough

“Time stalks, when you’ve been trapped among the ruins”

All my pretty prose and use of words I don’t really know, and as always less is more. The simple path of straight to the point. 

“Time stalks.” I like it. Problem solved at least for now.

2 thoughts on “Time

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