What is time, but a fleeting motion?
A passing of thoughts.
Our window into the past.
The future.
Time is now.
It is the essence of life.
What to do with something so fragile?
We can spend it, or waste it.
When might it end?
Come now, come tomorrow.
A second more.
Or not yet, a thousand years.
It carries anything and everything.
No man can stop it.
No man can savor it.
No man can own such a thing as time.
It bears all our hopes and dreams.
Yet, it haunts us at night.
“Let us be, let us be!” cry the fitful sleepers.
Love and hatred, have we all, for time.
Perhaps it knows this.
The aching it feels is too strong to bear.
So what would it do?
We’re all to blame, each poor soul.
Not an ounce of grace, have we.
Time just moves on.
You would too, friend.
So would I.
All there is to hope for.
All there is to remember.
Behind, ahead, and at our backs.
Time.
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