If I could “make” time I know what I’d do:
I’d simply slow down, and begin tasks anew.
I’d be less busy (to alleviate stress).
Life sure would be simpler. But nevertheless,
I could instead become busier, to create the illusion
Of more available time (Ha! Another delusion).

Time began with our ancestors knowing
Of movement, and cycles, and changes ongoing.
Is time a thing to squander or conserve?
No. Time’s only the change we observe.
It’s an unending continuum devoid of space,
Through which we recklessly tend to race.

Unstable leaders lack wisdom and sensibility
In matters of peace and sustainability.
They rush us through risky, chaotic events
Toward apocalypse and chaos, dire and immense.

If hours and minutes I could find,
I’d act for the well-being of humankind.
I’d flip my hourglass for life-limited others
To give needed heartbeats to sisters and brothers
Who’d use it with prudence, I’m sure, their lives to extend.
They’d flourish, or actualize, or just be, or transcend.

We grasp in vain for the ways or the means
To delay obsolescence of time-limited genes.
Across fleeting nanoseconds, epochs, and eons,
We’re captives of time – mere prisoners and peons.
This poem was conceived and composed in the past;
To be read in the present, then fade away fast.
I sit here, mind blank, unproductive again.
I’ve slowly let "now" devolve into "then.”

Time extension, so elusive, can never be known
Except in, perhaps, the Twilight Zone.

Will Walsh