What is time?
A constellation of fleeting moments,
Loosely strung together,
By the hands of an indifferent god,
Like far off, iridescent stars
That long ago, lost their deep
Luminous glow to wishful thinking
And withered souls with nowhere to disappear to.
Swallowed up by the dark, subtle indifference
Of the vast ominous sky,
They desperately glisten, lamenting
Their distant remorse,
Flickering out only to reapper, as if they are trying to escape
The nagging, elusive truth
That they too are nothing more than a hollow echo,
Sounding out across the abysmal space
Between the seconds that fall dormant
Against our empty idea of what it means
To feel alive.