Penelope by E.R.
You make time for me, you don’t understand what I mean.
But my dear, don’t you see?
Time is an abstract, a concept
— you cannot make time.
It is not something you craft; it exists under a strict regiment of
Tick tock tick tock tick tock.
And therefore my question becomes irrevocably sad:
For, if our time is inflexible and predetermined,
What must get made, reshaped?
— I must.
Because if I do not, I no longer fit and so the only conclusion is that
We must carry on, as does the clock.