Father Time, you grow old.

The days were longer when I was a child
But I have since learnt to hide from the path
of your fell arrow and your dread gaze from
Time to time, ridding me of your time, Time, over time.

Escape eludes me, but your watch is not eternal
I submit not to your imperious will, for this I know -
fools are all who think otherwise - that mortality
Our running time upon this stage, the allotted span
of imprisonment, plays no part in your machinations
Bears not your curse, Time, but the key to liberation
from infinity and the weight of its doldrum -
Oppression, whose sentence we have cheated ourselves
out of, but not your shackles which bind our thoughts -
No more! To think that we are bound in servitude!

For our tri-dimensional bodies slip through
Your thick fingers like fine sand - anchovies
Darting through the coarse mesh of your cosmic net
Cast over jellied butterflies which stick
not onto existence with pins nor clips, poor Warden:
You are Time, yet your reign is ephemeral.

Warm clay shall someday darken with my ashes and blood
Loam will someday close over the shell of
My body, and contemplate the being that once was

It will be then, Time, when I shall spit into
Your eye, triumphant, and return in bliss to
Nothing - which is something in itself - transcendent.