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.

Writer1326

VT

16 years old

More by Writer1326

  • The Time Between

    In the dead of winter,

    crows call out,

    their song a splinter-

    in the silence of doubt.

    Spring is longed for.

    Its warmth wanted more-

    than ever before.

    Though, in the time between,

  • A Reminder Of Winter

    A gentle reminder of love,

    the snow falls around like a hug,

    one I’ve come to appreciate so much.

    The chill in the air sweeps around us,

    as spring dances with winter.

    The two almost inseparable.

  • Those I Love

    I’ve come to realize,

    I am not solely myself.

    I am pieces of those I love,

    Pieces of those I’ve loved, too.

    They make me who I am,

    who I strive to become.

    Deep in my heart,