Time, Poem by Roy Ballard

divisible in ranges and domains;
befores and afters; deadlines; debits due;
the times of loss; of mending what remains;
the death of princes and the days with you.
Some keys, smooth in the lock, can turn at once
the spindles, bolts and springs without a catch
but others fail to move in consonance;
so doors are left forever on the latch.
The first note of the tune sounds out the key
and then it trails but wanders to return
through every dissonance and harmony
back to the starting place for which we yearn.
They say no journey ever is complete
till we return on dead or dancing feet.