Timeless irony

 What is in nature like time;

So greedy and stubborn;

That consumes everything;

On its way, at every turn?

What is so impatient like time;

That hustles all but waits for none;

In whose mercy nothing mends;

But in whose cruelty all burn?

Nothing so timeless like time;

In a petty, vindictive way;

Has led everything in existence;

Towards ruin and decay.

What a twist of ironies, then;

That “time heals all things”:

When it should only be acknowledged;

For the decomposition it brings.

Nothing like time, I suspect;

Is so malicious and backward;

With no will to introspect;

But always looking forward.

Consolations

 The little things of this world;

Such as the objects of my desire;

The fleeting moments of joy;

Or the ephemeral bursts of ire:

Are they not the circumstances of my will;

And hence under my own control?

Why, then, are external factors,

Blamed, allowed, to play any role?

The eternal realities of happenstance;

Flowing in conformity with nature;

Are they not beyond the confines;

Of my controlled causal structure?

Why, then, be bothered and mourn;

The things that come unwilled, unsought?

For the trifling things of my brief sojourn;

Are within my control, or not?

My immature soul, be stoic: live the present with virtue;

For the past and the future are, forever, out of view.