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.

ST.ART Magazine