Midnight Pub

ticked at the tocks


       how strange indeed
        a stray thought
        sailing towards
      the eye of the bull
            of time
      challenging that eye
         to show itself
   apart from my subjectively
         thinking it is
 is that why it flies when I'm
           having fun
that is, for thinking of it less
   yet drags to the point of
       eternal damnation
    when so focused upon it
         that its sands
        refuse to fall?


a watched pot never boils.

a watched clock won't tock.


superimposed upon
an unending matrix
our linear regression of it
makes note of our state

can you fly without propulsion?
can you act without impetus?
can you will without thought?
it is through this that sand etches away our mind
the workings of it finely polished brass
turning the hourglass of our own destruction

...of our own joy?

regardless the glass
      a spark
     a glimmer
 a passing thought
 soon enough forgot
to be merely thought
   'til the pain
of said ignore-ance
    sees wonder
   and raises it
  to the level of
   a winning hand
  destined to lose