I realized,
On no particular day,
That it isn’t us that moves through time,
It’s actually the other way.
We stay still,
In space and dimension,
Immovably finite, corrupt with tension
Time is the culprit;
Fluid and rushing, screaming and crushing,
That comes whipping through space,
Moving through us, chewing us up
Spitting us out.
When we look in the mirror we will see an old face
And wonder:
When did old age become such a big place?
