Yet time steamrolls forward

Yet time steamrolls forward
Yet time steamrolls forward and really
doesn’t care in the slightest
how I like that.
It seems futile to 
pass by every “now”
agonizing for a future
in which I could just as well
pass by agonizing for another future
because time steamrolls forward and really
doesn’t care in the slightest
how I like that.
It seems the only point in time
at which I have certain control
and no uncertainty over my emotion is
the present.
Oh, what a gift, ha ha, is that the joke?
Yet though time steamrolls forward and really
doesn’t care in the slightest
how I like that,
I think I’m averse to the present like
the demons from my past.
I think, indeed, that’s the joke.