Time passes slowly:
times of suffering;
times of joy;
times of ecstatic love;
and times of meaningful,
curvy roads.
Time is a young face posing as thought it were old.
Time's enigmatic impetus that is invisible proceeds while we learn everything we can,
while fighting the alien.
Time is misery of knowing what has come to pass will no longer be.
Wind by contrast speeds,
ages whistle past,
whispers of 'bye, bye foreigner' that is time.
Time is an alien who utters not and lives in the fourth dimension.
It can speak of Earth's home,
but it wont reveal its watch on the alien's wrist.
Goodness of love can depart and shocking death can return,
once time shocks my anti-Utopian paradigm.
Time may return, reengaging frozen gears designed for progress,
but science doesn't accept the existence of love potions as ethical,
since the beginning of time.
