The way time moves, it tries to be a melody.
Every day passes rhythmically.
The seasons repeat familiarly.
The way time continues, it tries to be poetry.
With love and passion, it tries to relate
To the beauty of desire and having to wait.
But time stands short; it cannot equate.
Patterns and chances pass off as fate.
Time is not a melody and time is not poetry.
It is not polished.
It is not radical.
It is not rare.
But it goes on.