Time, a sculptor with wrinkled hands,
Shaping moments, shifting sands.
Sometimes gentle, a lover's touch,
Holding dreams desired so much.
Sunlight’s fingers, warm & bright,
Painting days with golden light.
Laughter ripples, carefree & young,
Poems dance on Time's sweet tongue.
But the writer’s grip may tighten fast,
A caress turns into a numbed hand’s grasp.
Clouding eyes & a graying head,
Echoing truths Chronos fed.
Hands that cradled now constrict,
Stealing breaths, a clock’s cold tic.
Each a hammer on the bone,
A chilling reminder we could be alone.
Clutching shadows of the past,
Letting go of what cannot last.
Yet, in the artist's final hold,
A story’s etched, a life unfolds.
A bittersweet song’s end,
Beauty remains, in what
Time cannot mend.
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