Time is the only champion

In our youth it is misunderstood, scoffed at. We feel immune from its omipotence and annoyed by its pace. In our adulthood, resentment grows towards Time. We try to push it outside to the peripherals of our sight- nudging it away and to the drab corners of our consciousness. It haunts our edges. It is only with stooped backs and fogged minds that we long for it. We open the windows and sweep the floors hoping the cool Autumn wind will bear our lifelong partner back to us. We miss its steady drumming within our chest, the ever-present silent metronome of our existence. But Time’s warmth has all but left, leaving only the occasional draft within our memory as we recall the sweet nostalgic scent of our most fond moments.

Countless lifetimes of Coulds echo empty screams in the barren recesses of our minds. It is as if we’ve returned from a long trip to discover that our loved ones have passed while we were away.

Time is the only champion- the last fighter. The ocean in all its encompassing strength bows before it, its cresting waves continually offered as tribute. The sun in all its brilliant longevity weeps at its daily dismissal, continually reminded of its eventual end.

Time is the only champion- and time is in love with me.