Clockwork
Deep within the cosmic core
the celestial horologist tinkers,
bending time into wormholes
as the stars stare, muted.
We are oblivious, strain to see
our place amid endless expansion.
We accelerate blindly, unknown,
unknowing where we are,
where is could be at this
moment, at any moment,
caught up in the temporal tide,
a never yielding river
in which we inevitably drown.
We swim against time’s tide,
a futile effort self-justified
by our need for meaning,
for permanence unachievable,
for time is the heart of our universe,
inexorably pumping,
pumping,
pumping
and we mere cells, born,
dying,
replaced
and all from a bang
that tore the clocks asunder.