The harshest mistress closes her hand
Upon the waiting wrist
The aching world so powerless stand
To shake her fearsome grip
She does not stir for cries of fear
Nor pause her steady gait
For those who wail and she their tears
Know naught can alter fate
Sovereign matron, healer old
That bested every wound
The hand that pulled us from the cold
And plucked us from the womb
The guard who keeps the rearward front
And marshals forward still
From richest man to poorest runt
The maid of iron will
Press, oh press, and press in kind
Your ruler most sublime
For not one man has yet to find
The means to best her: Time.
As stated in the title, this is a preview of an upcoming poetry collection that I am working on. For updates regarding that poetry collection, please follow me here via the email list, or on my twitter.