Time.

Man may pride himself with the illusion of having conquered and understood every force to exist, and revels in his own ignorant wonder. 

But he stands defeated and will never quite manage to fathom one such force - time.

I am the witness of what is forgotten or left behind by the rest of existence, the one with no predecessor.

The nameless visitor who quietly sits by countless bedsides, looking on as men shrivel, wither and the walls of their existence slowly crumble and erode, while my friend carefully loosens the soul from the case. I listen to every regret and complaint as they grip my hand tightly, not realising that I am the eternal passenger of a journey they have long completed.

I am the mason who hardens cracks and dissolves distances. I free the delicate, strained human heart by befriending the fragile memory the race is blessed with.

I weave thick, joyful narratives and paint the highs with more vibrant hues to feed enough joy recollecting for a lifetime, while I also tactfully uproot the deepest thorns and soften the sting of wounds, still half-raw from being repeatedly picked on. I dry the tears and let jaws ache from smiling linger a little longer.

Every existence is my canvas. I unleash my design in strokes and folds, that line the expressions of many a long companion. I weigh in the damp scent of yellowing pages in a forgotten library, slowly curing crinkled dust covers within which simmer conversations of days long gone.

I stand still for some, and elude many.

I am the one yearned for, and cursed by several.

Time, a butterfly.