Time

Across from my subconscious it sits. Faceless, formless, yet existent Within the beat of a drum, the apex of the conductor’s hand, the crystalized drift of the final chord. It lives. Within the birth of dawn, the buzz of day, and the possession of night. It lives. Within the pace of my heart, the chill of death. It lives. Across from my subconscious sits Time. Faceless, formless, yet existent. An existence I grasp each moment it gives me.