Time is but a concept,

one in which the clock melts and spreads

like an egg on a frying pan filled with bubbling and the dripping of shiny oil.  

The clock ticks and out pops a bolt, and then again, and again!  This meshing and molding of brass, bolts, and time itself, this is how I see time.

We are but a moth, how our wings take us far 

only to lead us to passionate desires like a candle to where we meet our demise.  

In flaming fire and anguish, our lives remain nothing but savage.  

The rushing ticks of time click as it melts and drips hot drops of brass.  

Oh, this is how I see time:

a movement of dripping liquid slowly falling out of our grasps, 

as time moves and etches from a counter to the floor, 

our lives become nothing but unsure, 

no good amount to die

and no good amount to live.