Way of things

They say that Time is but a river -
A fairy tale for simplest fool -
So let me tell You all the truth:
She is a taker, not a giver,
With gift of seeing us through.

I've seen up close her spinning pattern -
Time's not some common flat line,
Where our choices do not matter,
She's but a wicked, raging ocean
With every of its parts in motion.

Time is our Greater Deity,
Untouched by laws of Man;
An ocean, once again,
Without islands of serenity.

All our greatest moments
Are swallowed by her storming waves.
Her deeps can always find their ways
To bring us darkest torments.

And yet, we fight her every day.
With sticks'n'stones, with ghastly roars,
With boiling blood and creaking bones.
But Time is unforgiving, anyway.

Thus, Hope is our greatest treasure,
Tested by Time, so cruelly measured.
And, all in all, Man's soul is so finite,
Like little spark, like stars at night,
That fade with every passing hour.
Truth is, in his little pumping heart,
Man's soul has all the power
Over so simple little life of his.
And that is why we all find our peace
In death's inevitable moment,
Like leaves, in autumn falling from the trees.
Noone escapes his own atonement.