Rush hour they call it
Then why does it move so slow
Have you got any to spare they say
As if you could save it, like grasping oil with your hand
When is this, what is that, as if there is any control
When you need it most, there isn’t any
And when dread is upon your soul it crawls by never moving forward
You are wasting it they say, as if you had it stored
How do you spend it they ask, as if it was yours to coin
A gift they say but who gave it
A new day they say but who determined that
Who set it into motion and made devices that track
Tiny increments they measure and chunks they call by name
A drop in the bucket to the universe, an eternity to man just the same
The expanse knows it not, nor the deer of the field or the fowl of the air
Only man, and he treasures it
As if it was his to keep, and when it’s run out
We moan, we cry and we weep, not for them
No, but for us, we know it is our turn next
For no one controls it as it moves forward
Yet it stands still for the eternal ones
Captured in stone or bronze they remain
No effect it has seemingly so, but one day they too shall fall
For it is the master of everything and of nothing
It has no real name, only what man has deemed it
His feeble attempt to measure it can never count that high
It never stops
It never ends
Chronos, the unseen…
