Breath of Time

Endless timelines. Breath halting emeralds.
Fathoms undiscovered. Undisputed. Undisturbed.
Prettier than the supreme sculptor chiseling the prettiest nebulae.
Sharper than the petals of the yet unfounded mysticsm.
Playing secretly in the lap of time eternal.
The multitudes of whose will forever be challenged;
Torn. Shredded. Mixed to dust. Nurturing crust. Nurturing wombs.
The only reminescence of time slowing down to scintillations.
The fragrance of nothingness; yet copiousness.
Pious than the chastest ovaries.
Marvels came. Marvels made. Marvels conquered.
"O, my Seconds, How many of such divine minutes yet to fill eternity?"
The incumbent Seconds, playing truant, continues playing.
The strings of whose fiddle, breaking through the cosmos.
The chords of whose, spinning universes on fibers of emptiness.
A loop so honied and yet so ecclesiastically alive and breathing.
Meanders making Civilizations - making Mothers, making Fathers.
Begetting dynasties.
Empires to come, Empires to go.
Down to ashes. Rising like a phoenix.
How I wish I could float through the melodies of that fiddle.
To the savour of such lands, which remains a prize for the delicacy.
To the  Lands unfounded. To Heroes unvisited.
To the only flower, awaiting to kiss the breeze.
To the colours from No Man's Land.
To the never aging speck of dust.
Witnessing the eternal courtship of Minutes and Seconds,
To the vast nothingness of the lost Breath of Time.