Knot Knot

There’s a poetry

amidst the  chaotic

and   painful

passing    of time,

a subtle     beauty

neatly      hidden

in        something

otherwise         incomprehensible.

There’s no       pattern,

no      habit,

no     real consistency

to speak    of,

and yet we

somehow believe

that everything

is connected.

It has been described

as jelly,

as clay,

as glass

and as stone;

and we wander

through it as if there

is something for which

we must atone.

It was said once that

time was not linear,

that it was more

a fluid in motion.

I rather think that

it is more a slipknot

in a line that is

otherwise unbroken.

Author's Note

Make what you will of this. The written meaning has been lost to time and my normal absent-mindedness.

Reviews

[Vishuddha]

I like it - the slip-knot of time and we are all tied up in it and to it. The painful passing of time ... to me not chaotic. Uncompromising, unyielding, rigid, sometimes frigid, (maybe I'll write a poem) bewilderingly elastic. Unending possibilities. Cyclic, tightening around the throat of my Oroborus. But, life and death both need a direction. How else would we know where we are going?
Inspirational. Thanks.

[A Modern Hippy]

Cheers. The clearest reason for my inclusion of the word 'chaotic' in the description of passing time is that I'm still a teenager, which to be perfectly honest is a hectic period of time. Everything and everyone is everywhere at once and it's very hard to keep a hold of any kind of linear thought or sequence of events. That's for me, anyway. :)

[Vishuddha]

I understand. I am much closer to my second childhood than my first and I am grateful that, although there may be a second childhood around the corner no one has ever told me to expect a second puberty.