Time is the sign.

Time is the cold gray wind that pushes the flock to the cave.
Time is the naked form in the chill of night seeking warmth.
Time is the illusion of the now.


Time is the brook that will die in the sea, yet live therein.
Time is a fire that consumes away its own fuel.
Time permits not contentment or repose,
Yet time is the finger of the timeless.
Time is the sign.
When time dies, life breathes deeply.

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