The passage of the hours, as sands do flow,
Binds our fleeting days in tethered bounds,
A compass for the heart, that we might know,
What dreams be mere, and what our waking grounds.
The clock’s stern face doth chide, “Is it now?”
When night’s dark cloak enfolds our weary eyes,
In slumber’s realm where phantoms oft do tread,
The bell of time doth toll, and so we rise,
From shadows deep, to find the dawn ahead.
With morning’s light, we ask, “Is it now?”
Sans time, our thoughts like wayward leaves would blow,
No anchor firm to hold in memory’s grasp,
The past and future lost in endless flow,
Reality and dream in void unclasp.
Adrift, we question still, “Is it now?”
Thus, time’s sure hand doth weave our fleeting thread,
From moments marked, our sanity is spun,
In measured cadence, waking paths we tread,
Through time’s embrace, our sense of self is won.
Each breath doth whisper soft, “Is it now?”