For a long time,
I’ve struggled against the unforgiving tide
the way it moves at its own will.
Its nature is swift and slippery,
in our most joyous moments.
As we cackle our mirth away
it moves in silence,
Sharpening its claws and waiting
for the gloom.
And when the inevitable despair comes,
and buries its claws on our backs.
It slows its pace,
Till we are agonizingly aware of its presence.
No matter how much we struggle against it,
the claws of time remain buried
in our backs;
making us its slave.
I don’t despise it.
Neither do I love it.
For time has ripped me
of my mortal remains,
And what remains inside me,
Is an unfeeling,
shell of the past.