Along the footpath home,

I espy an old apple tree.

 

Branches grabbing past the heavens

for something more significant.

 

I toss my knapsack aside

and dig in my coat for my pocketwatch,
while scrutinizing my newfound token,

I see him, Kronos.

I see him, a reflection in the polished metal.

 

I remember him, but Memory tells lies. 

 

My eyes examine eternity,

his everlasting ebony beard 

stretching below his knees.

His golden scythe supporting his

hunched back; an oasis for

his thundering wings.

 

Clothed in a withered robe,

he clutches an hourglass, forever in hand.

 

Never did I see him step backwards,

for he consistently walked forward. 

He spoke to me bluntly, “Time moves only one way.”

 

I stared into his piercing blue eyes and round trifocals

which rested upon his weary brow;

 

for I knew that time never stops,

so I asked “does it ever end?”