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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2043558
by B-T
Rated: E · Poetry · Spiritual · #2043558
About Time and all its glory. A poem after a long hiatus
it takes time to comprehend objects,
and yet like all else,
time dies.
Time repeats.
It slows,
it stops,
sometimes it begins.

Time, as if never ending,
flows everlasting
through people,
through days,
morning to night,
dawn to dusk,
but then it pops.

A man made invention?
An earthly elaboration?

Time sucks,
time ages,
but time sticks.
We're all trapped in time.

A time,
a place,
somewhere to be,
running late,
coming early.

Time dictates life,
it's survival,
it's chance.

it's all timed out.

Time for an appointment?
Time for a new watch.

yet time shows no scars.
No fear, no crime.

Time moves.
From one to another,
it moves,
it morphs.
An hour and a minute,
changed by time itself.

Once we run out of time,
time no longer matters.
Passing of a day,
a year,
no need for time once it's all gone,
but no matter what happens.
If one dies,
or a million,
their time will die too,
but time itself will live forever.

Once a lifetime,
one everlasting.
or be forgotten.
Time will progress.

There I am, sitting high on my throne;
a brick in the stone, all that I am.
About nigh time I settle in deep,
deeper than bone, and deeper than me.
A crown made of thorns, a past a prickly web,
I carry my sword, my blade, my bow;
I aim for the stars, and hit you bulls-eye.
Contrary to belief, my treachery is magical,
yet at best marginal.

You see, I am but a wildebeest.
A wild animal caught in a snare.
The wolf without the means
to bite off its own feet.
Nature intends, as do I.
So I only do as I do.
A tricky conundrum
where not but I am victor.

Crippled winner who rules.
Losers who worship fools,
thinking my might, my tools,
my military vice,
might come in handy, or win a battle or two.
Not these eyes, not with this sight.
A future amiss in a fog of blackened soot,
as my wilted crown crumbles to the edge of my stone.
A title once believe irrevocable,
a throne once thought unmountable.
Broken with time, crumpled with just a moan.

Slain and somehow better for it.

© Copyright 2015 B-T (cloverish at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2043558