Time makes a fool of inferior beings;
Mocking for how little we have of him;
Finding merriment with us at his whim;
He makes a game of our hopeless beggings.
In sluggish inconveniency he struts,
Slowing instants chained and ordained by pain,
Moments we hope end quickly, but in vain.
A cobra silently squeezing spirits.
And of moments sweet as red cherries,
Brief, short-lived insignificances, he makes.
So quick, a simple breath no time to take.
No place to live them but our memories.
We are but puppets of time, see those strings,
That he dictates with our lives restricting.
