Song of time

by Sandra Conde

Time is ravenous.
She powers over the living
And they run for the hills
Praying to be left alone.
That naughty, nasty time,
She captures their imagination,
Reveling in trying to break
Their spirits so fragile,
Making their lives shorter, bleaker,
While she laughs at the markers of
30, 40, 60.
She grabs at their arms and faces,
Pulling them down to the ground.
As they sit with sacks of regrets,
They curse at her, berate her.
And she never gives in
Because it’s her game on
The highway with no breaks.

But I am not broken as I sit
Across from them,
Holding the searing coals
She leaves behind.
I whisper the grace of now,
My sole weapon against
The suffering and the dying.
The skies fill with more stars.
The oceans turn a deeper blue.
The hills shaded by clouds
Breath a deep sigh.
In precious company of another,
She is speechless in the face
Of divine paradox of the moment.
We quietly chip away at her game.
Together we stand fearless
In the face of truth,
Till time is just divine comedy
In the room with chairs.