Philosophers have posited that time does not exist,
Yet none have thought to evidence a tender lovers’ tryst,
But so they should, for when two meet beneath the moon’s cool gleam,
Forbidden always elsewhere from the outright love they dream,
When darkness brings a respite from the solitude of day,
And lovers meet in gardens where sweet scented roses sway,
In these sublime oases the thing Time no longer holds,
Here as purposeless as Sunday’s spent beneath a blanket’s folds;
Time ceases as an entity to be of much import
To lovers in eternity inside their hidden fort;
And only when the midnight heaven must come to its end
Does Time’s dam break and send it once more flowing round the bend.