He was sitting in his armchair
as usual, watching all the hourglasses
the slight hiss of the sands sometimes makes him sleepy
other times made him feel rather weepy
another one to take care of
as another hourglass empties

He gets up, never has time to take his cloak off
with a scythe, in hand, he calls the winds to take him
he appears in a second at the bedside of a dying man
poor man he sighs, as the scythe passes across the chaps eyes
his job is never-ending death as a day and night job is no fun
I'm sure he would rather have a cactus shoved up his ***

I have myself have faced him
and to date, he did never win
I don't have an hourglass
for my name is Time
Death wished he was me
then maybe he could get some


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris