With ancient hands and gleaming eyes,

Time selects his clay with care.

His workshop spans eternity—

Where futures form and pasts repair.

First comes innocence:

Pink-cheeked and dewy-fresh,

A masterpiece of morning light

And untouched flesh.

But Time, that restless artist,

Can't resist his favorite game.

His fingers stretch the softness,

Till nothing stays the same.

With mischievous precision,

He maps constellations red—

Across once-porcelain features,

Where childhood's grace has fled.

Awkward angles sprout like weeds,

Limbs too long for grace.

Time chuckles at his handiwork:

Youth's gangly, blushing face.

Not done yet, his skilled hands move

To sculpt peak perfection's form.

Muscle, sinew, strength and pride—

A being golden-warm.

But Time's true art is entropy;

He giggles as he bends

The straightness into curves of flesh,

Where vigor gently ends.

Silver dust, like morning frost,

He sprinkles with a flourish.

Skin once taut now tells its tales

In wrinkles Time did nourish.

His masterpiece complete at last—

A life from birth to fade.

He sweeps away the remnants

Of everything he made.

Then reaches for fresh clay to start

His endless art anew,

This ageless, heartless sculptor

Who shapes both me and you.