morethanenoughtruth

Chronos, full of himself,

  cut a swath in the fabric of time

  with one great sweep

  of his mighty scythe.

Then he was eaten up with remorse

  at the thought of so many lovely minutes

  sacrificed to his impetuosity.

He swore a solemn oath

  for all to hear and remember:

“Between those who love

  minutes shall become eternal,

  shall live forever as timeless moments.”

There is an enchanted space

  between “the you” and “the me”

  where all can be,

Where time is not measured

  in fascist minutes and hours,

  but instead calibrates itself

 in slices of forever.

Seconds goose-step past,

  an ordered flow

  of diminutive helmeted Gestapo,

  moving on, marking time.

But we aren’t recognized

  nor counted in the enchanted

  hollow of our space.

Be patient.  Yes.

Step carefully, slowly.

This is unmapped territory.

Phallic imperatives do not apply,

  do not compute.

The urge and urgency

  of goal set and achieved,

  of point wagered and won,

  object objectified.

Between “the us”

  all these are null.

Time has been neutered.

Flow has assumed

  an aspect of the feminine.

Action leads to action

  as rationality condones.

Gone is striving to completion,

  to resolution.

Time has appropriated

  for itself new meaning.

Each moment contains

   and is contained by

   all the moments that ever were

   or ever will become.

In the quiet spiral of our ocean conch,

I hear only silence,

   save surge of breath and beat of heart.

As we intertwine,

   eyes open wide and clear,

   time looks graciously away,

   and leaves us to our sacred space.

My eyes feast upon

  the tender curve of your lips.

My fingers touch and trace

  their gentle arch and swell,

  meeting left and right.

Time has gifted us this moment

  that minutes cannot define,

  describe, delimit.

More than happy, I am happiness.

With no goal to strive toward,

No plan unrolls before me

  demanding that I “do” in order to “be”.

“I am that I am”, as “you are surely you.” 

Dare I plagiarize the poesy of the divine?

It was Moses’ God first coined that line,

His as flame, mine constrained to word.

The winds of your love

  flow gentle through my hair

  while those silken silver strands

  cocoon the enchantment of our magic.

In a land far away

  but as close as your next breath,

  where all moments, that ever were

  converge, and  time becomes eternal.

All minutes become moments

  in one temporal orgasmic scream.

This is the land where time stands still

  and hearts skip beats,

  and worlds come wobbling

  and lurching to a stop.

There is food here for philosophers,

  but I am merely sated and fulfilled,

  forever being and becoming love.