Time To Come Poem by Mary Champion

Now time passes by with blood on its hands,
Foreshadowing death with each broken spell.
The shifting grains of its treacherous sands
cut short the stories our souls try to tell-
stealing the future where all our dreams dwell,
sips through our fingers to flash past our eyes,
too fast, too fleeting, for us to know well.
But ask, can it ever be otherwise?
Consider an age when time never dies-
an eternal spell that nothing can break.
A time without end - might that be our prize?
time that preserves ev'ry form we can take,
a time line to travel - ne'er to lose track-
the arrow of time moving forward and back.