The Hidden, Deceptive Nature of Time

The mender of cores wanders,

Working gradually on each heart.

As it approaches my exterior,

It is content to discover,

That there are no wounds to heal,

Because there is no heart to feed.

Mine contradicts the remaining blue-green wonders,

Leaving a gaping, hollow passageway

So that each damage of indifference

Is eventually placed

In that stolen original crux,

Slowly consuming it whole,

As I watch from afar.