Everyday you awake to find,
That another day has been left behind.
Every time you must sadly ask, What has happened to yesterday?
Albeit a truly dull day.
In time, you see a virus,
Vis-à-vis something which helps us.
You see it as something vicious,
Never have you liked time.
Hate it, you do, as many others do a mime.
And in your audacity,
With your false sense of security,
You say with all authority,
That time is an atrocity.
That it is something vicious,
Something utterly atrocious.
You ponder the abomination that is time.
Which you abhor as others would a mime.
In this way, the time ticks away the moments that make up your long, dull day,
All you do is fritter and waste the hours in an entirely off-hand way.
Just like the day before.
I imagine that you will do so forevermore.
But I know with complete certainty,
Of your incorrect audacity.
For time is not something vicious.
And time is never atrocious.
In no way is time an atrocity.
I tell you it is but a simple utility,
There for to mold,
If we may be so bold.
Try as I may, to guide you to desist,
It is recondite, so still you resist,
Certain in your superiority.
It would seem you shall never reach prosperity.
You may call me a worthless heretic for what I say,
But I am not the one wasting time by pondering its nonexistent aura of treachery throughout the day.
And still, you believe that time is fervently vicious.
That time is vehemently atrocious.
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