Promises of Time

Time is a fickle thing,

never in one spot twice.

Always on the run,

playing a wicked game,

with the mortals it torments.

It whispers sweet riddles,

melodies as soothing as a fiddle.

It makes promises worth more than gold,

but you’ll quickly find they just turn to mold.

Time isn’t a sinister being,

though, it doesn’t care, either.

The setting sun is a natural clock,

the sand falling down the hourglass,

ticking away the years Time has given you.

Time isn’t something to dance with for-

once you take its hand, it’ll whisk you away.

Spinning you around and around until you’re gray.