Time; scratches on a piece of stone

To be aware of time is akin to counting grains of sand in the desert; a known futility. Yet as I sip from this vintage cup of moments and memories called my past; I dare say, a little more respect would not have killed me. Is not everyman’s time bestowed upon him in a shielded hourglass hidden from view? And because the weight never changes, do we not carelessly and foolishly live as if there is as much to come, as has gone before?  

Who among us knows that day or night that holds his last breath that would not be running harder not to catch it? What truly honest man does not feel guilty for time he has wasted, or be that much busier getting busy with that which he has left? I will never come to fully understand why I should have been so blessed and others so denied the gift of time here in this mortal world. Yet despite my ignorance, time continues to treat me so well; never failed to meet me at the door with my slippers nor with a folded paper laying beside my chair and always treated me as if I were her favorite song playing over and over in her head fully well knowing that in time my dust would indeed slowly turn to stone. Is time a friend or a lover or a minute too soon or a minute too late? I do not know for I have never spoken to time, only of it. For time holds us all hostages and only knows the day our will be set free. Time assuages to the demands of no man, no matter whom. Ask any silent headstone and read the news of your  mortality; simply scratches on a piece of stone.

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