Toiling, Ticking Thing

It itches with a undecided fate. 

that survives only on the certainty of
A shaky unsure platform that leads to another shifty summit. 

This toiling, ticking thing called time. 

It changes with the tide 

As it erodes away the edges of dry earth 

A shifting engine with greasy gears that buckle and rust

That toiling, ticking thing called time.

It fades with the echo of a strong wind
The glittery scent of recalled memory
A force of nature that pushes all things forever forward
The toiling, ticking thing called time.

It comforts chilly clinched toes

from the cold winds of a hard life

A warmly swaddled bundle of future's whimsy

This toiling ticking thing called time.

It consumes mountains with the plush fur

of evergreens and soft house slippers made from moss

A healing, hoping, breathing, growing, grasping catalyst of past and now and next

that toiling ticking thing called time

It knows nothing more than everything

Seeing something spectacular in some day far away from this day

A monument of the past that stands strong in the souls of every man

the toiling ticking thing called time.