Poem: Time's Passing

Amidst the banks of bogged moor,
Where there Time came adrift in lore.

Beholden by none but the minstrel's lyre,
Who told of Time's past now lost in mire.

Time sung sweet through bitter fruit.
That in mud and blood did take root.

Watered by sweat of those long suffered.
And partook of by fools undeserved.

So it bled in rivulets of gold,
The sands of time as stories told.

Hence came our world born of blood and sin,
And unfolded thus in cacophonous din.