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Elegy of time
In the quiet hours of passing days,
Time lingers, a silent, lingering haze.
It doesn't mend wounds or ease the pain,
Yet we grow accustomed to its steady refrain.
No remedy, no magical cure,
Just the habit of enduring, for sure.
Time, not a healer but a gentle thief,
Softly whispering, causing us to breathe.
Its slow poison, a subtle art,
Softly creeping into every part.
No medicine, but a silent force,
Shaping our journey's rugged course.
In its passage, we learn to cope,
Navigating life's uncertain slope.
Time doesn't heal, nor does it mend,
But it teaches us to bend and blend.
So as it flows, soft and slow,
We find solace in what we know.
Surviving becomes a learned art,
Etched in the beating of the heart.
© _areesha
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