The lyre never lies

as it laments

the passage of Time. 

 

The verdigris resignedly 

grins, vestige

of a vendetta

with the aforementioned

ruler of clocks, 

paradoxical sprinter

of marathons. 

 

The glass of hours knows

warring won't work, 

inveigling either;

coercing the ether

into structure, or

cowering in the corners

of existence: such

would be the means

of a laughably futile, 

nonsensical resistance...