Slipping of Sands

Lets visit the eldest of us all, the eternal father, the keeper who watches that of slipping sands, he the keeper of time.

Through the clock tower we drift our way, up dusty steps to find a man, smooth of face, yet his hair white as snow that drapes across his deep eyes that shine the light of a million wonders.

He stands beside a window, gazing out upon its oddly wonder, for this window is no real window at all, but that of the hourglass of time, which shimmers and shifts in movements that are almost a dance so elegant and refined.

For each shimmer of dancing light is a grain of sand, that alone is time itself, for each grain is a second, minuet, hour, day, week, month, year. But it is not just time, but all the souls and elements of of time within the mortal world, and as the sand gently trickles down in its elegance of dancing light it counts another death with a flesh far below.

Some gains fall so steadily, one by one, for these are peaceful deaths and lives, that seem so calm and collected, a journey so peacefully it a blessing that time is kind to them.

Yet see here, that clump of sand, hurried together and rushing down, that gathering of sand shows a massacre, so brutal and dark, it touches the lives of many and with a flash of light, there exits those who fell to that slaughter.

For this is father of time and he sadly knows his duty well, however painful, however cruel, he must remain to watch these sands trickling down, watching each soul within each second, minuet, hour, day, week, month, year, slowly pass between both realms, as he the father of time gently guides them to and froe.