Between The Times Poem by Jonathan ROBIN

Braggart on Time's edge razor thin
Evolving frame by anxious frame,
Tired Man spiders fate or fame,
Weaves threads soon dewless dust - none win.
Each, casting dice - who's spun, who's spin? -
Expectant, losses would reclaim.
Now's leaves fall swift to Styx domain.
Telomeres shorten, cease to twin,
Hold all in hostage to chagrin.
Each page youth inks, seeks wings, pride flame,
Till age sooth sinks, weak wrings, ride lame, -
Insects' ambered Time-trap gin.
Maybe technology shall speed up change,
Extend short sojourn, mankind's range so strange.

6 May 2001 revised 4 May 2008
robi03_0934_robi03_0000 ASX_DJZ
for previous version see below

Between the Times

Balanced upon Time's razor thin
Edge, advancing frame by frame,
Tired Man spiders fate or fame,
Weaves threads soon dewless dust - none win.
Each throws the dice - who's spun, who's spin?
Each lost winnings would reclaim -
None independence dare proclaim.
Telomeres shorten, cease to twin,
Hold all in hostage to chagrin.
Each page youth inks, seeks wings, pride flame,
Till age sooth sinks, weak wrings, ride lame, -
Insects caught within Time's gin?
Maybe the Net shall speed up change,
Extend Man's sojourn range so strange.

6 May 2001
Between the Times poem (c) Jonathan Robin