Time is a tunnel we all must travel alone.
Our speed is astronomical; we cannot intone.
Nestled in our Eden, we keep our own score,
Counting suns, moons, … seasons, to the four.
And so our time is honored to even be aware.
Counted to accumulate and predict ones share.
Of the Universe's great revolving plan,
Gravity to the center while spinning out again.
We rotate with our Earth once every single day.
Twenty-five thousand mph on a windless bay.
While our home circles its Sun in airless grace.
Sol rides the Milky Way with astounding pace.
Who knows what the Milky Way sails around?
At a velocity approaching light profound.
In the womb our time tunnel has no ends.
Both ends open with the light birth sends.
Gradually aware of the time that we have,
We fill it with activity needed to live.
Some grow tunnels deep; some grow them wide.
No way to know which is right until the other side.
Relentless the rotation though we cannot abide.
Our tunnels grow to wisdom and then subside.
Until death closes our tunnels in,
While the tunnel of time continues to spin.
Copyright 2004 © Ronald W. Hull
Read War's End, the Novel