Time
Is a simple word.
A loaded word.
A mysterious word.
A frightening word.

Time
Speaks to the unknown.
Unhindered, unafraid
It transcends understanding, escapes comprehension.

What is time?
The steady ticking of a clock, counting down the minutes of existence?
The passing of each day, the melting of a sunset into night?

Yet if time is meant to be a fixed tempo, how can it fly?
How can it slow, linger on the air?
How can we tell, if time is a thing unseen?

Perhaps time itself is a fallacy.
A figment
The illusion of a measure-seeking mind.
Perhaps we have imagined time.

Yet if time is unreal
Why does it run out?