Could the clock hands spin
like tumble dry clothing?
Pulling vision direct
to whirlpool of time,
a hypnotic twirl
of numbers and hands?
Where would that stopping point be
for me?
Could more mayhem be wrought
alongside this daydream or do solo
trips fulfil the limited tickets?
I am not attempting this journey,
despite the often time illusion,
for loss of now means
loss of the world that cradles
a life spent chasing.
Perhaps this is the knowledge
that has been sought out
all these decades, now just
part of a fractured image
wholly joined by the events
from before?