What is this intangible thing called time
Ticks on an outmoded clock face,
With arms sweeping relentlessly around,
Each cycle the same as the last,
Ultimately unaffected by our feeble flailings
As they roll by repeatedly?
Or marks on an unseen tickertape
Stretching inexorably through eternity
The fixed past falling behind
Some recorded but mostly forgotten
With an unformed future approaching
At an ever-hastening pace?
Or perhaps, insignificant as we are
Within the scope of eternity and infinity,
Our actions and attitudes may serve,
Not to revise, but to redeem history;
Revisiting the past, to recast
An, as yet, still fluid future?
Are we simply slaves or shapers of destiny?
Do our origins dictate our ends
And the paths we pursue from one to the other?
Is Calvin’s God to be found in our genes,
Interacting with circumstance like cogs
In a vast predetermined clockwork ballet?
Are we actually organic automata
With free will a benign illusion,
Playing out our pre-set parts
As the universe winds down?
Or can we, perhaps, just perhaps
Make a difference?