Voids

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.