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The sands of time run swiftly through our hands, no matter how much we
try to hold back that precious flow of seconds.
Its rapid flow accumulates, each second a handful of dirt, piling beside
the grave that Time digs for us all.
Many go about their business, pretending that they do not know, trying to
convince themselves that they are not like the rest, that they are outside the
dominion of Time’s ability, that the final reckoning of all their deeds will
not be brought to bear upon them. They
believe that they can, and already have, eluded the grasp of Time, by running
from his steely hands, but in the end, they will realize that running is futile,
and that it will actually cause more pain in the end, when their delusions are
shattered by the presence of the black robed being, the one with the ivory
countenance and the thin hands, the one they call Reaper.
As these stand before him, they will cry out in fear as they stare at his
skeletal appearance, and realize that he is just the same as they, that their
actions have not taken them further from him, but ever closer to his bony
embrace. The cold embrace of
Death’s white arms, the eternal embrace of Time.
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