Boundless

Time has a habit of hiding his face,

Turning away so as not to be found.

When, to reflect, we turn our gaze around,

He has passed by and left void in his place.

Though we may beckon him, he never stays,

Though we construct our own temporal bounds,

Endless refinement of eloquent sounds

Spanning five years was complete in five days.

I have no methods, nor know I of ways

In which to grasp the elusivist Next,

All I can tell is the Next has begun.

This ought not stop us from searching the haze,

Finding the charges inherent in text,

Don't close your eyes, don't pretend the job's done.

For those who care, this is a Petrarchan sonnet written in dactylic trimeter. It was in part inspired by Jake Johnson.