As a faint, feeling, flies in the sky.
It stays, stalks, staring into the night.
I breath, back, believeing all I knew.
Time is of the second,
Passing by every minute.
Followed right behind the hour,
Which becomes the day.
My speech, spills, sparking the dawn,
It lives, leaving, letting me go away,
For the call, caressing, cleaning my soul.
Morphing to the week,
That grows out to the month.
That has the seeds to a year,
Wilting into the decade.
A sound knocks, knitting, killing the night,
It now holds, helping, hunting the fight.
And its over, over, over.
The century marches slow,
To line up with the milleniums.