The Book of Time


To go along with my ramblings on happiness and time (in just another canvas) here is a poem I wrote. It seems to have great wisdom and simplicity … so why can I not take my own advice? If I can write this I must understand it, I must believe it. Life is a paradox of mystery and clarity.

The Book of Time

The past is a story lost in time and

Who living might know what happened then?

Events seen now through a misted glass

May appear distorted, shaded by the tellers pen.


The future is a page still blank

Unwritten yet, and might not come to ought

For impending dooms can be re-writ

In time, and actions planned remain just thoughts


The present time is all we have

To play awhile; an open book that we can lend;                   

Life’s template to illuminate as best we might

And should; for all too soon we reach the end.


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