Each moment of my time has its own price;
and some cannot be purchased with mere coin.
Let my donation of it be my vice,
and cursed be those who would by ruse purloin
five minutes, nay, one instant without leave.
That being mine, it lacks the holy grace
of your own lifespan, I will not believe.
Yours trades for no more value by its face,
nor is it alloyed from ores of more worth.
There are some things for which my time is stored;
though just a few, they each claim sacred berths.
You would rob these slyly, and what’s more,
believe it chattel due some wage you pay.
But what I give my hours is mine to rank;
and there are more important things each day
than what results in funds placed in the bank.
Each moment of my time is not for hire,
nor is it leisure waiting your concern.
My candle’s length is not your source for fire;
and I alone choose how and what to burn.
20 JAN 2005
Aleister Crowley once said, and I liberally paraphrase, that if you love life you do not waste your time, for that is the primary measure applied against it. I dedicate this poem to telemarketers, spammers, door-to-door salesmen (of either tangible products or intangible salvation of some kind), clients who call after hours, and all those who would infringe upon my time without my express consent or request.
