Upon the canvas of the cosmos, the clock of time does spin, Moments stitched in stardust, woven within its kin. As fleeting as a whisper, as transient as a dream, Time, the unseen artist, paints with a subtle scheme.

The sun, a faithful marker, rising and in retreat, Casts shadows long and fleeting, where light and landscape meet. Days become mere memories, nights, forgotten tales, While time, the silent voyager, never once derails.

Babes bloom into elders, seeds to mighty trees, Petals yield to autumn, kissed by the icy breeze. The ebb and flow of life, in the heart of time resides, A dance of fleeting moments, where past and present collides.

Seconds slip like grains of sand, through the hourglass of our hands, Lost in the vast desert of days, where the ghost of future stands. We seek to clutch at the morning mist, capture the sunset's glow, Yet, time eludes our eager grasp, in its ceaseless, silent flow.

What was, is now a echo, a shadow of its prime, A relic in the museum, curated by Father Time. What will be, lies veiled, beyond the reach of now, In the unwritten chapters, beneath the furrowed brow.

Yet in this fleeting nature, a precious truth unfolds, A chance to savor each sunrise, before the day grows old. To dance beneath the moonlight, to feel the springtime breeze, To treasure each transient moment, for time is a lease.

So, in the haste of hours, take pause and understand, Time is but a wisp of smoke, slipping through our hand. It teaches us to value, the now, the here, the seen, For time is the silent whisper, coloring life's serene.

For in the end, it's not the years in our life that gleam, But the life in our years, the moments in the stream, The laughs, the tears, the hopes, the fears, that make our story rhyme, The love we share, the memories bare, in the fleeting hands of time.