The Same Old Riddle

We keep trying to kill it, split it, hack It to itsy bits. We suspend it On the wall where we can see it Passing. We hang it around our necks Or wrists, laying pulse next to Pulse as if each might like Company. Ba-bump, etc. Rising And setting has everything to do With it. In the afternoon we feel so Lazy we try not to close our eyes And jerk awake, wondering what has Passed, and where did we go For that suspended hour, And could anything keep us here.