Now that it’s
clear
that I write
the worst
poems of modern
times
I have excess of words
to give out as cigarettes
to the homeless freaks
of tomorrow’s
cave
I have these empty
whiskey glasses
for the saddened utopia
of ultimate
reality
giving up time
as a shoe
that blistered my feet
but a bum of philosophy
took up
as a joyride
to
perfection.
Beyond Language 
I do hope this is all a figurative ‘giving up time’ for tthis poem and this poem alone’s context.
No giving up allowed. Nope.
And love those red laced tennis shoes in the photo of old stone street. Hmm.