The Fullness of Time

May 9 2011

In the fullness of time

we will laugh about this.

Or have forgotten it
entirely,

ancient history

water under the bridge.

After which

a supernova will incinerate the planet

anyway.

A nihilistic thought, I admit.

But what giddy freedom it gives,

because if nothing ultimately matters

I might as well live

in the moment.

Yet time is never full.

It is full of holes

of forgetfulness

and drudgery.

It will never overflow

or even be filled.

And it is not a measuring stick

standing outside of us,

exact, inviolable.

We are each a clock of our own,

running erratically

fast and slow.

Slamming to a stop

in the fabulous clarity of falling,

the impact

of bottoming out.

In the very first kiss,

when tectonic plates shift

continents

can drift apart.

And when you depart

finished, or not.

From jilted lovers,

the basic struggle

for life.

It is true, though

that time accelerates

as we grow older.

Because we’ve seen it all before.

Because a month isn’t much

after more than enough of them.

But when a year was half your life

so far

it was a vast trackless place

in which to lose yourself.

A space you could not possibly fill

before moving on

to the next.

Before cynicism hardened you.

Before you got jaded

and bored.

You’d have thought

close to death

you’d give anything

for one more day

                                 …hour

                                             …second.

But even this depends

on how tired you are, how much pain.

How much

you so deeply desire the end.

When the fullness of time

sets you free,

delivered

from suffering.