To a cat named Thomas

Time is that, Thomas,
by which we break the rocking-horse
monotony of the event that hath been, is,
and will hath been,
assigning the number to the uncalculable,
to make it look like there is a system
while there is none, in fact.
Or, fiction.
Anything unique, sober, singular
to the betraying eye may seem so many
while there is one, in fact.
Or, fiction.
The number breaks bets into bits.
Eternity denies the number.
Overburdened with waiting,
the gates open wide onto the knocker
to leave him outside,
but still aware of the secret treasures.
Event is eternity limited
by pretense, both shallow and great,
that something measured becomes tangible,
and thus exists. Even by whisper.
Time is that, Thomas,
by which we separate the end and the beginning,
to make it look like there is progression
while there is none, in fact.
Or, fiction.
The other side of me
may be the other side of everyone else.
It's looking from the other end.
There is no other end, it's fiction.
Or, fact.


1 октября 2016 г.


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