by Christopher Mcilquham

Created on: February 01, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

Time.
It slips like sand through my grasping hands.
Even now, it spins itself around me, teasing, escaping.
I look on as seasons change, and landscapes transform,
Unable to react in my desolate prison.
I scream only to be unheard.
I cry only to be unseen.
They don't realize how it controls them, manipulating.
Time is child playing with the lives of men.
Malicious.
It feeds of their pain, lives on their regrets.
Hunger.
Regret. They'll regret not listening when the time comes.
In the end, regret is all that remains, all that is left.

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