Another day finished, 

irretrievable time lost. 

As my body rebels in pain, 

I can’t help but count the physical cost. 

Dying to myself,

my body is dying, too. 

How do I ignore pain’s missive, 

when the day is through?

For the suffering, 

pain is the hand of a clock. 

Each daunting tick, 

you’re powerless to stop. 

At least, with each 

earth’s pirouette,

I’m that much closer, 

to time’s Beget. 

When outside time,

in Time Maker’s glory to spend, 

there will be limitless days, without pain,

and joy without end.

As pain remembers 

another day’s expense,

my spirit will satisfyingly recompense,

to welcome an eternal day,

with no discernible tense.