Time is a false truth, as everything is

One o'clock
is seven and two and
Midnight in the span of
A sleepy sigh, my 

Disillusioned arms arest

On the midriff
Of a pale blue dot's

Eternal moon-sun, in the
Blinks of a delusion fluid
As a kite.
I have come to think
Of time as a tightrope, and I,

The failing funambulist.
The floor is not water
Nor tile, but crooked
Second and minute hands
Pitched up in
Roman formation.