Time;
You feel it whenever you exhale,
See its marks
With each line in your face it scratches,
As it drags you ever downward,
And into death's cold hand.
You hear it as an ever present tap,
As a surface meets a water drop;
But you do not notice what it means,
You do not see that the drop that crawls
Down the stained and gnarled stretched finger of past's hand,
A hand that might easily be clenched
Into a fist which, it seems to you, will never let you be free,
To meet the dark and foreboding waters of the uncharted future,
Passes a drop down a space as infinite as a moment,
Which we know is our existence's exact point.
A minuscule moment,
That if you watch with your attention rapt,
You might just see it pass before your eyes,
Sparkling with a light which is a mystery even to the gods.
For though none truly understand it in their hearts,
All know time's truth in their minds,
That there is only one time piece in that daunting clock's part,
Which was, is, and always will be the present.
