So little time, so much to do.
Sweep unpleasant things
Under the rug of Time.
Divide seconds into smaller parts.
But clocks have no room 
For smaller "parts."
No time, just a continuum.
A verse with no rhyme,
Coming from nowhere, going nowhere.
Yet here is where I am,
And there is where I was,
Or perhaps where I will be.
And yet where I truly am 
Is not any of the three.
I am the hands on the clock,
The pen that writes the verse
The broom that sweeps my actions
Beneath a thread bare rug.
All but a few souls
Ride above such sweepings,
A carpet of fantasy and illusion,
Dusty stuff desperately held
Each forgotten second, 
Every forgotten life.
Occasionally some, with great effort,
Lift the rug in worthy disgust,
Clean beneath it, rearrange it
And place it so as to be seen
Through a window of antiques, 
Looking functional and collectible,
Yet still woven with old karma.
All but a few souls ride the remnants
Over and over, believing they can fly.
If you were to ask me, 
"Where is the Magic Carpet Store?"
I would not be able to tell you.
I think it went out of business
Or had a fire sale.
Maybe this time it's time 
To put away the broom,
Disregard clocks 
And stop taking the ride.