D A Phinney - Time

Time is a pretense which haunts the mind
With past recollections of words and events
Presumed to exist because we once were so
Configured, involved, that a separate kind
Of reality's granted the heart's own shadow.
Where the heart tries to hold what can only once be,
And the mind by reflection to waken each sense,
Then it follows all life becomes mere memory,
Pre-fixated, now-unconscious, yet-blind.

D A Phinney

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/time-131/