The end is come, the veil falls

An earthquake breaks the temple walls

Hell freezes over, donkeys fly

In Chicken Little’s falling sky

The Son of God comes back again

A comet brings a fiery end

The Mayan calendar runs out

The trumpets sound, the angels shout

Atomic war destroys the nations

Shiva’s wrath aborts creation

The Universe implodes at last

For Time itself has come and passed.

Time. I don’t believe in it. It’s not a real thing, it’s a convenient construct for our everyday lives.  Think of a theoretical point in space. Where is time? There is none.  Now add a second point, and by moving them relative to each other, time, or the concept of time is born.  Whether it’s about your hour hand on your watch moving relative to the Earths movement around the sun, or any movement in relationship to any other, its not some all-pervading fluid called time. I don’t think traveling back “in time” could ever happen, because that would mean returning every atom in the universe back where it was and as it was — it gets a little complex — especially if you (like Fry on Futurama) fall for your gramma.

In darkness just before the dawn

The madmen dance out on the lawn

Spin, scuttle, clop,

For in the light a toothless grin

A sunken eye or drooling chin

Betrays the madness deep within

Spin, scuttle, clop.

They promenade and curtsy low

They all join hands and do-si-do

Spin, scuttle, clop,

And as the threat of daylight spreads

They waltz their way back to their beds

To dance all day inside their heads

Spin, scuttle, clop.

As Winter shed her overcast, the sun began to show

And suddenly a knoll of grass appeared amid the snow

The withered blades lay all askew like soldiers in defeat

But as the yellow army grew, the snow began retreat

For Winter’s long and cold reserve was melted to the core,

And even snowmen turned and ran for Spring had won the war.

Crystal balls fall all around

And shatter as they strike the ground

While silently we march en masse

Through bloody drifts of broken glass.

How beautiful the crystal sphere

A perfect orb, so pure and clear —

Yet hold a shard up to the sun

And rainbows shine on everyone.

The home-made cookies he’d consumed

So eagerly before,

Now lay in chunky disarray

Beside him on the floor.

His tongue was clenched between his teeth,

His beard was streaked with red;

Yes, it was very obvious

That Santa Claus was dead.

The note upon the table read:

To Santa and his elves,

We hope you like the cookies

Me and Timmy made ourselves.

Faiths like Christianity

Treat women as if less,

For born of such insanity

Are Goddesslessnesses.

Sixty-one times around the sun

(A thirty-billion mile run)

I’d clung to Earth both day and night

As twenty-thousand times it spun.

My life is three or four dogs old

The beating of my heart untold

I’d searched the stars a million times

To see the Universe unfold.

And though time flows and hours gain

And moments seem to wax and wane

Within the cosmic hourglass

Time passes only grain by grain.