Oh sweet Melancholy,

Thou art named Time.

For this sad day,

'Twill never be mine.


And time, sometimes quick though it is,

Will never fly.

But it will always move,

And Move with life.


Time moves sometimes quickly.

It sprints at times, and at others walks.

Although 'tis always silent,

For time never talks.


Some tell of how it flies,

But I must always disagree.

For flying is for that which is graceful.

And time has no grace, believe me.


Time is immortal.

Yet there is not a more serial murderer.

I wonder why death has not taken it,

For there is no one worthier.


But time lives on,

For how long, no one knows.

Even time itself cannot take a guess.

And it shows.


Second after second,

Time is merciless.

Thinking only of itself,

It kills those in distress.


Some call time a hero,

Melancholy is its true form.

Every tear that has been shed,

Is on time's back, so worn.


Time has me on chains,

Slowly killing me.

As it goes on,

I await the day that I am free.


One day,

One question will be on mine lips:

"Where hath all this time gone?"

Will ask I, with mine hands on mine hips.


For time will have flown.

And mine time will be up.

Time will be over,

And 'twill know this is enough.


Mine life will be over,

This day will be done.

Freedom will take over,

And this world will be gone.


Time is the limit,

Time is key.

When time is gone,

All will be free.