Was Is

The narrative is not as simple as it seems.

Life is stained-glass evinced in some

Holy place, colorful and mysterious,

Crosscut with gashes of lead veins.

We exist in clock-time, consciousness

Measured chronologically. Images,

Experience, superstition and action

Are ordered: past, present and future.

But this measure of things is wrong.

Time is motionless, ever-present,

Inevitably vivid. Desolation and dust,

Mourning and regret are inseparable.

There is only now.  To be truly

Alive, order must be suspended;

All time converges and dies.

It is crooked and bent, dishonest.

Was is and is was, and the future 

Exists only when we dream 

Like infants who desire nothing more 

Than a mother's gentle touch.