TIME is a body that is nobody’s.
For instance, no matter how transitory
Escapes the slither of its hands
Peeling through the pith of moments,
Made malleable by its slender fingers.
Its eyes are sharp, it severs but never
Stalls for a second’s overhaul
With its familiar cold, all-knowing stare—
That gazes as moon gazes at men before day,
And gnaws as predator dismembers its prey.
Its skin is of the subtlest shades of light,
A spectrum from ivory tusks to the dark of the night
That pulls you nearer to be always in sight—
But the closer you come, the farther it gets,
And if closest, could cost the last of your breath,
For Time is neither mine, nor yours—
Only the clock is ours, not the hours
Of today and tomorrow.
Kristine Joy L. Dabbay
