and just who is this man in time?
he is older than the wind;
he is younger than the breeze;
he is then; he is now;
but he never is what will be
because what will be is never what it was;
he is vast and deep as oceans;
he is as wide and high as the sky;
he is as small as the smallest pebble
in a mountain stream up high.

and just who is this man in time?
he does not make the headlines;
he does not wish for fame;
through all the struggles
through all the gaiety,
he just keeps moving
underneath, over and throughout the brouhaha
relentlessly demanding an obedience
from all who question his might.

and just who is this man in time?
he just keeps moving irrevocably along,
not speeding, not even changing speed
a slow freight train on rails to nowhere;
although the world and the creatures therein
keep changing because of him,
but not him;
he just keeps plodding along
no one, nothing can stop him,
not humans, not the world, not even the universe,
perhaps not even god,
or perhaps he,
this man of time and god are one.

he sits in his residence splendor
in the dark toward the turn of the day
his woman’s garden roses about the house
he muses with the muses of Zeus
to find the meaning of it all
wondering why
he should consider
irresolvable considerations
in the dark
of night and his life
with roses in the room
when the former years
were living with no such concern
running full bore towards nothing but
living, loving, getting it done
moving on
moving on
passing through life with passion
without musing
without concern
when it might have mattered
might have been
something, something
while now musing is
merely ruminations with the muses
in the residence splendor
in the dark of the room
toward the turn of day