In passing time, my time has washed past;
a clock of a river smoothing and eroding a stone.
The element of thought
curved and organised into a more organic and fluid expression of itself.
Thinking. Plain, maybe simple.
Continually removing oneself from the immediate plane
and arranging a flight
to a much more complex stratum.
Amassing frequent flier miles.
to places where there will be only one stone on which to focus.
Places with room enough to accommodate layers and pyramids;
the sediment and the lord that sits atop it.
Because your companion for the trip shall be one aristocrat.
He who presides over all of the strata.
And the stones in these places do as boulders would;
they deliberately interrupt the stream of consciousness.
But they are more precious and potent than their literal counterparts.
And the sophisticated man will always cry for new intricacies
from his meager mind.
'Expand! Expand!' He yells.
And so the river widens its maw.
More thoughts, more rocks.
More polished stones from more gravely elements.
More time spent encouraging the bored and isolated oligarch.
He harbours the river and troubles the turbulence.
Very few things can ebb this flow.
Though the philosopher may slow
should he find another river to skip the stones across.
And a delicate water nymph to make them into lovely opals.