Time

From us, does it run? To tease us with its allure and burden us with dreams we might some day tame.
Or from it, are we the ones who make hasted feet? To avoid our mortality and break free from knowing some day it will end.
No matter the circumstance, us, time, locked in a fleeing dance.

In its hand, we're held, magnificent and bold. Arches in the sky, a lick of paint from mother nature's delicate stroke. While consumed, or consuming, time reveals to us the art of everything.

But our gain? It seems intangible. Like tasting the stars, or hearing blue. We borrow, or lend what is to be had from, or given to, those who fit the bill. To consume more divine art, or plate for another: time: currency of the soul.