Need time be that arbiter of activity always?
I think not, its inexorable push set aside
By the rush of pheromones, tingling skin,
Raised gooseflesh responding to the touch
Of soft lips brushing on warm, silken skin.
Time is shown to be a mean arbiter indeed,
Harsh and unremitting in loneliness, forgiving
In the throes of scents stolen before the world
Time comes to filter through our experiences,
Hope cherished and spirit kept alive, despite time.