The Man Which Time Eludes

Unlike the man who records time

every hour on the hour with a punch card

I have no such luxury.

Time eludes me once again.

Or maybe it has finally died.

Father time no longer graces

me with even a glance.

It is no mystery,

to those of tainted minds: humans,

that time stops for those who die.

So with this, it’s safe to assume I’m dead

or at least non-corporeal.

But what if time

is just a Lovecraftian lullaby,

something that comes out of the burnt

brain cells of our neuronal sky.

If this is the case

then time dwells in the dreams of the dreamers.

I haven’t dreamt in years.

The caffeine

has me hearing voices

and staring at ceilings.

I am the man which time eludes.

The one who father time excludes.

The one who calls his wife

the queen of the anti-prudes.

I’ve spit on this thing called calculated time.

My days are my nights

and my nights are my days.

The earth spins in reverse under the gaze of my eyes.

I am the man which time eludes.