Time itself is one more name for death.
C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed
In days of youth she drug her feet
Minutes were days and days were weeks
She isn’t impatient, but she doesn’t wait
She is steady and doth not deviate
Yet with greater acquaintance she makes haste
In youthful naivete she is often wasted
To some she seems cruel
And to others a friend
She is faithful and unwavering
As she knows no end
She is always moving , never still
Some say she is illusion
She thinks she is quite real
But the geniuses and the fools
Have her quite misunderstood
She is quite rigid though she can bend
She is quite relative to some impactful friends
And though she is blamed for entropy’s reign
She objects with this complaint
She alone does not cause pain
But speed and gravity and the will of men
Cause her to change and confusion to set in
But the last word is not spoken
The Great Watchmaker in time will fix what’s broken
Stabbing Windmills 