Hardik Vaidya

(26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

Time


What is time?
The tango of two some or three some on your wrist?
Or the shadows that change on the silicon chip?
How much can you split it?
Hours to Minutes to Seconds to Nanoseconds to my ignorance and that is bliss.
It began when the universe begun.
They say. The mathematicians.
The bean counters of God.
I differ.
Time is when my lust was born.
Pure Animal lust.
Lust in its flesh.
Lust as in lust.
Dripping lust.
But.
Lust for your soul.
Only for your soul.
Your body was a wrapper, I had to admire it.
I had to look at the ribbons.
I had to tug at the strings.
Sacrilege, haven't you read William Wordsworth!
Child is the father of the man!
Haven't you read William Shakespeare! Hamlet, a play, not foreplay my love.
Frailty thy name is woman!
Time was born of me, for your fleshy raspberry soul.
Born of my Devine lust of you.
It stood still.
It stands still.
It will continue to stand still, for ever, timeless.
No definitions will suffice.
Science fails, when poetry triumphs.
Just as confidence emerges when all desert.
Flesh rots when lust of the soul revels.
You made me cheat time.
You made me cheat mortality.
You taught me to cheat defy and yet honour god.
Alas you don't have time.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Does it matter when you choose to not exist?
And tick away like time on your wrist?

Submitted: Tuesday, January 29, 2013
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  • Tony Sampson (1/21/2014 9:23:00 AM)

    You wrote alot of Interesting poems. But this poem of yours called Time I will comment on because I also had written a poem called Time. You can see it at: http: //poemhunter.com/poem/time/ We are mixed with time as we develope into existence. Time is a part of all of us. Look into a graveyard and you will see the part of time that has died.
    See also: http: //poemhunter.com/poem/old-as-time-itself/ (Report) Reply

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