Time

Time

Time is an idea,
a flicker of perception,
a single dot
on the vast scroll of immortality.

It grants you age
also earns you a wage,
counts your breaths,
marks your face.
Its absence brews impatience,
its weight ignites a quiet rage.

Yet time held in silence
matures into wisdom,
turning the restless
into a sage.

In the playbook named Life
it is merely a page—
not the story,
not the stage.

Nothing is born.
Nothing truly dies.
All forms dissolve,
renew, recycle,
and rise again—
re-presented
in altered guise.

Hours, days, months,
years and eons
march in measured lines,
obedient to clocks and suns.

But immeasurable Time
whispers softly:
You do not age.
You only turn a page.