The Sans of Time

Time is without cold indifference,
Without steely, unrelenting, merciless churning of wheels.
Time is without Fascist commands.

We invented its rigidity to wrap our minds around it,
wrapping itself around the sky.
In its grip, the sphere obeys, robotically ticking away.

No.  The waistband loses its elasticity.
It twists. It crawls. It flies!
It doesn’t appreciate being predicted.

You’ve spent years paying off your mortgage,
only to lose your house in a flash flood.
You’ve waited years and years for it to fulfill your one desire.
Will Time, at the end of your years, unlock some heavenly door,
introduce that timeless awaited friend for a few fleeting breaths?

“You steal! You take! You hoard!” You rage.
You’re racing Time in a frenzy, but the finish line keeps advancing.
You despair, because you will never get there.
And if you ever did, it would be too late.

Time reaches out a hand to you like a kindly grandfather.
He gets down on all fours with you, plays games and pretends.
When you look into his eyes, you see that he is just as young in heart as you.
He wants to give you everything – everything in him, everything…
in Time.

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