How now

If our concept of time,
Always is, and always isn’t
Then what does that make us?
 
Figments of our own imagination?
Delusions? And creation?
Squiggles on a page?
Concepts already made?  
 
But made by who, might you ask?  
To our friends in the masks
It’s not who, or what or why
Just how.
 
How now brown cow  
Said the girl
At the market  
Her face  
Bemused  
By her own words  
 
And that is us
Dearest friends  
Dearest readers  
We’re the dreamers
Of life
On this planet  
We call earth