Time

Time, forever omniscient, forever there,
Many enemies, few friends, that observe and stare
Into its face, into its exquisite eye,
As it sits on its throne to cry
Seconds and minutes and hours on end,
Too low for Greed, too high to bend,
It simply sits, no tears to lend.

Time, The master, Supreme,
Sits confused, mystified, in a dream,
As others seek to seize its gift, its treasure,
Live to feed and writhe upon Time for pleasure.
Yet all fail, as, through the smoke,
Time hears their cries as they fall or choke,
Begging Time to aid them, and release its yolk.

Time, who beats out its own rhythm and chords,
Looks beyond, and sees death beside it, bored.
'Won't you accept a little company?' Says he,
'Hmm...' Time replies, 'I shall think, we'll see.'
Death smiles, leading Time up to dance,
Both intertwine, the pace quickens as they prance,
Above destruction and grief, both in a trance.

Time, Ignorant though just and pure,
Knew not that the leeches lay beneath, seeking to lure
Time to reveal itself; Time cleverly presented them with a gift that tricked;
Three hands that clicked, Twelve symbols they licked,
'What does this mean?' Their countenace's fell.
'Well,' said Time, looking on, 'It is my gift. You cannot tell
What conjures beyond me. until then, if you wish, I'll leave you to dwell.'

The End

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