Before it begins, with separation and longing,
Or the cold reality of a finite end
We lay under tilted health,
Dreaming of the others that will come.
Are we certain more will come?
There is only one absolute,
And we close our eyes to it, hide,
And place others in its stead
To conceal what we know is certain.
Delay and postpone
And wrap up the moments for later use.
Will time forever exist how we believe it will,
In interchangeable parts to use
And reuse at our discretion?