Like time, are we found through serendipity.
Minutes, a mere tick to unfounded revelation.
Past, are the days when we go subtly by, dissipating into the night sky.
Like time, our corporeal spirits aloft into the pitchy sky.
The tender kiss, a gentle stroke, nuanced by the caressing love of the lunar above.
Like time, are we imprisoned in our own conscious. A mere abstract picture, blown into the winds, caught adrift, and veered into the dark streams of reality's heavy rift.
Like time, we are but ethereal wayfarers: youthful beings marked by ephemeral nature, merely to trance the universe's wake.
And like time, our departure ticks till the last grain meets, and the sand flipped, to start all over again, and again, and again.