So seamless are the hands of time,
Beguiling all in its silky embrace,
And shadowy illuminations,
On leading transcending existence,
But on mortal paths made for us so fickle,
Our thoughts seep out in wonder,
Over the sinking and gathering sand in the glass,
Thoughts like flakes in a lazy white storm,
Settling soundlessly with no rhyme,
Or reason as to why they came about,
Making us forget to hold on,
To hold on to what was allegedly undying,
Turning the dreams insipid,
For that is how Time takes from us malevolently,
What it bestowed once so munificently,
Leaving in us voids,
Built of longing and,
A beating emptiness,
A void each for each pain to treasure.
