Time is hardly measurable,
yet we all know it persists
you cannot wrap it’s form
or legitimize it’s pain
the past is a thing that breathes,
constant to now, in vain;
You cannot hear it humming
but behind a watch hand,
deathly strumming
balanced on a string,
held by present,
like a strand;
Weeks, months, years
what’s the hurry to clock in
if the void surpasses the watch
and it’s gears?
A millennium holds each day
a host, evicted the essence of a minute
for every breath,
a ruler underway.