Time

Time is a general, she marches on.

Do you rush ahead,

try to beat her to the end?

Do you march with her,

keeping time with Time?

Or are you her prisoner,

dragged along reluctantly?

She is, after all, undefeatable.

Time is an artist, she paints the past.

Pastel smudges of memory,

Bold strokes of emotion.

She drums the rhythm of now,

cheeky Time, did she increase the tempo?

She dances her way into the future,

spinning across the stage of history.

You think her linear, but she can see the spiral.

Time is a lover, she knows everything.

She lays your head in her lap,

caressing your grief until it lays down too.

She takes your light, your imperfections,

etches them into her heart, quietly erodes the sharp edges.

You'll fight her, you'll want her,

but in the end, you'll release yourself to her.

The trouble is, you think you have Time,

But all along, it's Time who has you.