Time is often written about
as an element in motion,
lacking all emotion,
unstoppable and cold.
Or a few poets,
compare it to a cage
you hold on to,
like a dog holds
onto its leash.
Time is all of that and none.
Indifferent not, but different.
Every passing second,
an eternity to some,
fleeting to others.
A universal entity, Time.
A relative perception, yet.
If Time's cold, how does it heal you?
If Time's kind, how does it kill you?
Time seems a cage
when you cage it
to your perception.
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