Just as an optical illusion is
a distortion of our sense of sight
History is the distortion of
of our sense of time
a multifaceted linear line drawing circles
around itself
a snake eating its own tail
It is cycle of energy given gusto,
given zephyr,
given purpose,
given flesh,

Time is an illusion
a sea of scales spinning in place
like recycled gears in a facetious factory
Each scale perpetually glistens with refractual independence:
A certain angular nuance that comes with
not knowing who you were in a past life
nor who you will be

When we die, how will time pass?
Will it be like sitting in a funeral home,
watching an infinite line of grieving gables
Meander across

I wonder if it were more cruel
for the corpse
or the cry
If time were an illusion.
If death were a cycle with no escape.
If I were god.