Our fickle Mistress

Time, our fickle mistress,
Ever changing, from the stars to beyond,
That is the mere reach of human consciousness,
On one more unseen spectrum that's cast to the blind eyes,

So time speaks with etiquette, most graceful being,
Yet still battling on broad oceans of slashed,
Slashed and withered, dark and impenetrable stronghold,
Against the begining and end of all,

Time is not one's rhythm to do as one may please,
Carving the landscape of lies,
Unbound and unwittingly we, mere mortals see,
That hands and face lay decay'd on lifes stage,

Life's monument to the immortal art,
Not slain in most crimson fury,
Nor abashed, abolished by time's ravenous touch,
No, the celestial angels lie in dust,

Once sweet lullabye, touched youths' hearts',
has twinkled in the sky but it's hour has rung,
Rung through soul of our earth and every creature
That lives in its abundance,

Their hearts have shattered,
And left now as memories down a cobbled lane,
Of the laughter and tears, irony and blood,
But time leaves those memories alone to brake,

Still they are left,
The older generations of our time,
To join the choir of the Angels,
Angels have already walked through the lane,
And their wings are broken,