Sonnet 114, Nothing Dwells Poem by Peter S. Quinn

The time that's here, when each moment dwells on,
Is like echoing from eternal past;
Here, in creation where nothing shall last,
Before we have reached out, the shadow's gone.
All we know of our world is in turn done,
Coming toward us either slow or fast;
It's only a blinking shooting star cast:
Nothing dwells, except shortly under sun.

The rivers shall dry up toward the ocean
And the clay can not be moulded by you,
Unless you give time, to moments you are.
Rummage in your mind with a forward motion,
For life is like this in learning each clue:
At the start, with contradictions you jar.