Time is continuous but space, often as not, discrete,
Most of us live our lives inside a box,
Of several, many times they overlap or edges meet,
Some are devoid, some full of gold or rocks,
Some ever open, others closed and locked.

One box is labelled work, another club, another sport,
One mistress, wife, pastime and pressure group,
Each one an entity in its own right, a separate port,
And yet sometimes they weave a tangled loop.
An empty box becomes a cage or coop.

The difficulties multiply when boxes mix unseen,
When rocks and gold, one worthless, t’other rich
Are blended, and deceive the nescient eye with subtle sheen
And thaumaturgical Black Lady switch.
Is this an iron maiden or homely niche?

It would be so much easier if space as well as time
Were homogeneous instead of complex,
Life would be less confusing, and would lean to the sublime,
One universal hold-all, no annex;
No sleight of hand to eyes and mind perplex.

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