There’s a constant unfolding of the Big Three:
Past, present and future in and out of me.
For instance a flower from seed to bloom.
Where did it come from? Space, line or tomb.
What is the obvious? It was here before.
The proof is my memory. It’s not a door.
I’m sitting in a chair alongside of you.
I raise one foot. It’s not stuck in glue.
The present’s even harder to see.
The sum of all parts can’t be
played more than once one way.
Sentenced by your words but you can’t stay.
Yes but the future is even worse.
You lie with your mouth open about to curse
loved ones and enemies passing by.
And all they can say is my my my.
But what if the wake is constantly unfolding?
Always on the move and ever beholding.
Blessing the time you used to be
with it and thru it and endlessly free.