Time is dust

Did this one as time was turning me into dust...

Image by Evgeni Tcherkasski from Pixabay

TIME IS DUST

Time is a rage, a tiger in a cage. Time is a monkey after midnight. Time is the road that crumbles into dust. Time is another day. Time is all the words ever written, and the feelings that went into feeling them. Time is dust.
I was waiting, forever waiting, for something, in the mists of time and counting up my fingers and going dust brown and taking certitude lessons from the fencing teacher when I heard something in the endless circles where I found I was hand finished at the dawn of another day where I was waking up much too early, I came to know I was fed up with it all, and so gave up, and prepared again to live in more time as it came at me, and just keep on going and thinking; whatever:
When I have time I can do all that I want.
But when time runs out I will turn back into dust.
It doesn’t matter: today, I have all the time that I need.
…
Maybe I was just slumped in the dust with time going backwards. Or maybe I was going timeless or ageless or turning into an ogre or something.
Blocks of thinking were flowing passed, so I pull some down, and I let the rest go by…
…
Am I the lover who loves everyone, but doesn’t take sides, or am I the dust that passes for everyone?
Time is dust, but it’s ethereal, and passes so quickly you hardly know it’s here until it’s gone.
Yeah, life’s a bitch, and then she’s gone.
I was hardly a keepsake; but.
She was looking at me again with some kind of dust in her eyes that made me think I was not a foreign toad to be dismissed so easily, and so I gave her a wink out of the side of my eye that was looking at ther the most.
She winked back.
From then on it was wink wink wink over what was separating us from each other until we could come close enough and be gathered up in the tune of it all to give us something we could believe in to make us one, or become dust in the wind.
Time is dust.
Time is anything you can make it.
We were the love in the limelight.
We were the dust that time makes to make time.

Image from Pixabay