What is it I allude to
Within the complexities of time.
The arrows of time,
The linearity of time,
Or is it space time,
Or the simple neglectful
Waste of anyones’ time?
The force or the cube
Is it theory or touch?
What is then to be?
Or that which, is what ever is, watchable?
And then there are the calculations.
The numb number crunching equations, evasions.
Tables and formulae,
The scalp damaging quadrilateral forth dimension,
The pulp and the neuron.
Be it Algebraic symbolism
Used to try to explain,
The cusp at the nub
Of the clot on the brain.
The despair and the culture.
Astrophysical and tyrannical
The wheel of probability
Rolls over pain to the innocent.
Whilst others watching the sky
Are looking for Simons corner.
It is probably just over there. Or it was, is.
This being the rub for,
You who are watching the past.
And are trying to figure it out.
The rain in Spain
Falls mainly, not here.
Who has such time to waste?
Time is in transit, or might be.
The delicate suffer regardless of such study.
There is the noise of death everywhere.
And the planet keeps revolving, for now.
Who has a care about The Nebular Hypothesis,
When the carers cry
“Here is another baby, Who is about to die”?
All life is short and Presidential, personal.
For the bending of light is upon each of us .
It shines over Aeons and comes past fast and is futured.
And the stars continue to laugh us off.
Because we are the late comers
Who have come to view the cosmic fireworks.
And time is of, and in our lives.
It is as fast, as it is slow.
It shudders around our newly awakened hours,
Wherein we are longing to know all things.
But is this a deadly distraction,
A collusion, a conclusion of minds,
To know the Mind of God?
© 2018 Christopher Thompson