Time is a construct of our mind to contextualize existence
It doesn't exist, it isn't tangible, our minds use it as a tool
To live or die and place into order the events of one's life
The sands of time are felt as a child is born or an elder lost
With nothing inside our mind like a clock, no resistance
To a concept that we gain wisdom, in ways good or cruel
On occasion we rise or fall, hopelessly seeking the divine
All without one great clock hanging in the hall of eternity
Ticking forever, without end, each second making its case
Eternity is ambrosia but as flesh beings we can never taste
The fruits of the land of Elysium, or the Garden of Eden
They are out of reach, far beyond our mind's reflection
