Time

The ghostly entity, bleak Time,
Reigns master over life,
As when he speaks his words so harsh,
Obedience does blindly march.

Though reasonable and aware, the whole of humankind,
Does stoop unwittingly to serve its lordly Time,
Whose false gifts are shifted to the grave
Too soon and leave but gloom,
And skies alight in flickering glaze
Of Happy do sink too soon.

For see our souls belong to Time,
Who renders us mistakes,
And thrusts us to the filthy grime
From which he so creates.

Yet all our lives we do neglect
His sinister and hollow nature,
For what is there to collect
But an approaching hour's allure?

But the hours are each no more divine-
Does not each with equal potency shine?
Yet see the fool who worships them
And sees not life but solely Time!

Is not this terribly tyrannical king Time
Too often the tumult and melancholy of mankind,
Who waits in patient agony, so solemn for the hour
That, unlike the others, is by some great euphoria so showered?
Yet the hour of his fleeting elation
Is but an hour of all hours
And one hour lasts one's contemplation
Not more than any other,
Each structured with the same complexion
Carved to a brooding glower.

Oh, dreams that Time shall eventually
Grant the sky a new attire-
A cloak stitched in an emerald sheen
To beem brilliantly without retire-
A fantasy so satisfied
By an empty, temporary cloth
Smothering the skies, this guise
Subsides quick as a melting froth.