Tar

By Amy Bradu

A poem on the often cruel and uncaring nature of the passage of time during the pandemic.

How it drags defines the struggle,
That it steals more moments than it is owed.
The hours, the days, the months, the years,
Those would be enough,
but no, they must come,
as molasses flows.

No,
not molasses,
Molasses is too sweet,
too brilliant in its color.
Too suited to the whims of men.
No, it flows not like molasses,
It feels more like 

Tar.

A boiling void
whose encroach is slow
and entirely merciless.

to ceaselessly toil in the rising tar,
That's what we're here for.
Haplessly typing on a broken keyboard,
completely unaware of its ascent
until at last
we are consumed.

The only difference
between now and then,
is at last we can see it
and how pathetic is that.

Process

Throughout the pandemic, the two things that have plagued me more than anything have been needing to keep working and the dauntingly slow rate at which time passes. Disillusionment with the former came over me as I was procrastinating a school project, and the dread and lack of motivation caused me to start spiraling until eventually I started thinking about the oft used imagery of time flowing like molasses. In my ennui, I found myself almost offended at the notion that time could be something so lovely, and decided that it must be something viscous and empty, like tar. After coming up with the central simile of the poem, I decided to put it down on paper in the form of a poem. I finished my first draft that night, and on a call with my mentor went over exactly what needed to be reworked and fixed. After making the necessary edits, which included adding a third detail to use in disproving the connection between time and molasses and removing some clunky and poorly integrated repetition from the opening lines, I had my final draft.