Strange lines (a poem)

Time isn't linear.
We now know that...
(or do we?)
But what is it?
And how does a singular life
follow along it?
In haste?
Fleeting, flooding, continuous(?)...
for a time.

Time.
Perhaps it's not surprising
that time had a beginning...
but an end?
Acutely aware
that life has an end
at some point in time.
But that life provides a stamp in time
that is lasting.
Affecting.
Unwavering?

Strange lines,
life
and time.