On Time
A prose poem
I am time. I am the time that is too slow when you have nothing to do and too quick when you struggle to hold on to things. I am the time that takes blame for the absence of your accountability.
They say it is suffocating to be bound by me. I never did them bound in ways any. I didn't create the four seasons, the days and the nights. They found me so abstract to throw all blame on my feet when they are weary.
I am constrained and confined in glasses of circles and squares in a world that pretends to believe that's where I am made. They hang me on walls and tie me to their wrists and call me the chain. They forget they slaved themselves.
"Time heals. Time forgets. Time slips by too soon. Time doesn't wait."
They keep me too close but never talk. They glance and peek like the silent city neighbour that forgot to build around him new walls. They pretend to control me. They pretend like I don't exist only in their memory.
They walk busy streets with hearts wrapped in their hands, but with paper. They walk and walk unaware of where to stop and blame me when the blood seeps in, moistens and tears the sheets away with nothing left to hold their hearts in.
They make appointments and call the world fast paced. They say I was always the problem and to help them I never cared. They create the past, present and the future, and label me as its indicator. They teach each other, not to waste me. Will they ever remember they can never be the hands my fate would rest in?
I kill. I give life. I create. I destroy. I hate. I love. I run and I never stop. Humans say it is suffocating to live a life I determine. Maybe today when the sun collides, all their problems will cease to be alive.
Goodbye.
