Where Is My Time?

I wrote this a while back, waiting in a pub for a friend.
It has since become a musical piece.

Where is my time? Where is my mind?
Minutes behind, minutes pass, flapping away
in circles like bird's wings, wax wings,
one wing shorter than the other; I make my ascent,
an hour passes, then I plummet...
down... down... down... and round again. I
sit, I stand, I stare, and time, as always,
passes, but I am not aware: a loud
hubbub of pandemic noise is eclipsed in
a second- the same second that
followed the many more that went before;
the hundreds and thousands of
seconds, like little building blocks that
slowly build their way right up-
seconds; minutes; hours. Suddenly a year
has passed, seemed quicker than the
last and I'm still stuck like
quicksand, falling down the hourglass;-
'Where is my... Time?' Time went too
quick, never even saw it went, never
heard it when it left: the digital age
hides the 'tick-tock-tick' like camouflage
and suddenly, it's gone; where did it go?
And if it isn't now, maybe it never
was- can time be said to exist in the
past? Yesterday seems so far away, but
really it's not: it never was. Only what
is now is real; traumas of a bygone
age are invalidated, outdated, exaggerated,
overstated, and swept under the rug. Oh,
sweet time, 'forget-me-not'; too late,
too bad, again: already gone. The here
is now, and now is already past- a
memory of what is not. Nothing is; it
never was and today will be lost to
morrow. I see the sun rise like a
sun set- sad and sedate, lulled to
sleep by a low hanging moon that
sang its last and came too soon.
What else is there left in this? Tomorrow
never was- is never is and before
I've got my head around the concept
of a clock- alarms ring, the planet
spins and I think: Where is my...
Time?