The ebb and flow of movement
In which we measure
We count the ticks of a clock
As it sways throughout history

Fading nevermore as the face gazes onward
In a never ending trance
Transcending the fabric of space
Urning to be denied its existence

Ignoring its pleas we lock it up
Dissect it into smaller parts
Smaller and smaller still
We give these fragments a name.

Days
Months
Years
The list goes on

As time starts to fade
We begin to question
why we did it in the first place
We ask ourselves
Is the measurement of time really worth it?

We focus so much in it that
We ourselves fell into time itself
Losing our immortal selves
We embraced a life of death and pain

And for what?
Just to have ourselves locked away in a cell?
Lost in the confines of which we call. . .
Time. . .