The blood of Time may grind to halt in turn,
But what may boil except that which might burn?
What sees the season change from Spring to Fall,
And overwatches patterned winds to tide
The night to day; from warmth ’til frigid calls
To sleep the beasts of nature’s changing hide
Until awakening becomes the column standing tall?
What twists the cells of bodies’ hue to age,
In color and in strength’s velocity,
And brings itself to stretch the shimm’ring wage
Of light beyond, of heart’s jocosity
And spirit’s joy so seen within a sage?
If blood itself could bleed, it would ooze Time
For Time protects no man from Death’s own rhyme.
Check out my YouTube channel! I make create stories on there as well and tell them in a different type of format: Mr. X