So, what does one at thirty know
That one at twenty merely guessed?
That Time is but entropy loosed
From bowstrings of our trembling self.
If all one is is porcelain –
Another person’s precious prize –
Of course, the piercing thunk of Time
Will make one feel irreparable.
Instead when one is Infinite,
When Worth is not Attention’s alms,
Then Time is just a name for Now,
And everything one does is Wow!