Were words not overused
as they are,
perhaps
there would be more dignity
in ‘grief’,
that is to say,
the vicissitudes of turbulence
in the ravaged valley of the ‘heart’,
that serves
as contemptible metaphor
for the entirety of one’s substance
susceptible to ‘despair’,
the kind
that makes you despise
the glass half-full
and envy
the sound of ‘laughter’
made in blissful ignorance
of the barbarity
of cold ‘time’,
which is,
as Dad used to say,
just “a unit
used to measure
the changes
of nature”.
From Book IV
Rummages Across the Dead Land 
Yes, over-used and taken to mean many things, I particularly like your “contemptible metaphor,” and your father was right, I think: no change, no time. Admittedly, I’ve been trying to unravel time for many many years, unsuccessfully.
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Thank you for your kind words. I didn’t think much about it at the time, when he said it. I regret that. It was when he was gone that the words dawned a more special and deeper meaning for me.
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