As time is untrue...

Why does time speak these hours like words, the years forming sentences of a seeming truth, when my life's term is more often a momentary lie of constant changing?

And what for my understanding of this language with such a dialect of deceipt,
a forked tongue splitting the paths of my past and my future?

How real the signs read,
TIME passing, THEN is NOW, NOW was THEN,
and here I AM,
standing stopped forever at the crossroads,
searching the horizon for a landmark of truth and feeling time will not tell true.