There is no measure or order of time,

No past, present or future.

Only a concept created within a mind,

And only surviving whilst it can feed on human perception designed to simplify a series of events.

It is just a brief moment. Nothing more, nothing less.

Everything else is down to memory and imagination.

Time as we view it is non-existent.

Stared into the future before the hands reached twelve,

Through a window stumbled across whilst they were busy hiding in the branches of trees,

You’ll never know if it was a glimpse intended to be or if it was down to the relentless nature of the odds,

It was insight that night that stole them from thee.

Every race that you ran, you succeeded in attaining victory as they cheered you on from the side lines in a state of amazement and ecstasy,

But not yet had you mastered the art of walking steadily, many times did you fall to the floor.

And never did they fail to continue clapping and shouting your name,

Rarely did they cross from beyond that spectating line,

In sickness or in health,

Standing medal in hand or lying flat on the ground.

Flying amongst the atoms in a state of hypnosis,

Close enough to form a species of uniformity and difference,

Contradicting our own definitions of all that we should be,

With every event that causes a shift in the temperature.

From hot to cold,

From love to hate.

I’m never going to leave your side, child,

A few minutes later, the director cuts you from the play.

And traveling in the direction of the wind for one time alone.

You were given a watch once upon another dull year to keep the time,

It became lost from that wrist of yours and never could you find.

And then, twenty years down the line,

Whilst sketching up plans for another apathetic day,

Fearful of every movement happening around you in such a delicately formed way,

You came face to face with that child once again,

With a need to be held in arms of steel and told a future of gold,

Who would never fully comprehend the expectations of time.

Were the hands on the watch turning slowly backwards,

Or clockwise with every second disguised as a minute?

Time is nothing when a watch can be shattered and frozen in a single fall,

Or set forwards by the events of a fateful, bitter winter’s afternoon.