Interesting is it not,

The turns n twirls of this illusion dubbed time;

At least that is what the great philosopher has called it.

Weaving through every conceivable thing,

The difference in state of every being

Both pre and posthumous

It is then in laying these pros I attempt to make sense to this unquantifiable that quantifies all.

Strange is it not

That my attempt at pragmatism remains but an attempt

I can barely rest in fact, if it insists on changing.

I am allowed to do this today but cannot tomorrow

As if only to goad me into hilless plain of again and again and again

In hopes that I shall realise my elusive goal,

Once again I am brought face to face,

With the one fact that is above all over facts

Intriguing is it not,

That something so constant can be so dynamic

Yet of all the limits laid none is as rigid or as final as this

An enigma of sorts it indeed is

Leaving us coining ridiculously true phrases like “Sand through an hour glass so are the days of our lives”

Evidently when all is said and done

Unlike the sand none can hold on to it

Terrifying is it not,

That this simple measure contains much,

And being vaguely aware of the distant sound of ticking clock

Nothing is quite as final as hearing tic toc tic toc tic……. without the toc

So batteries will go dead and sundials will ware useless

And it will go on regardless of our devices

As it is only a matter of time Before those who speak of me will say “she was”!

Liberating is it not

To be so aware of such goings on,

At ease with the sequence of things,

As well as the expiry of things,

A freeing abandon to use every moment To take your place in the days allotted to you

For In deed or lack there of,

Time continues on tic… toc… tic… toc… tic… toc…

from me to you………………………………………………………………………………..Amare poeta

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