Quandary of Time and its Significance: Thoughts in Brevity

It is the end of another month. One-twelth of the year, thirty-one days or seven hundred and forty-four hours. Time flows away like petals on a river; or, does it? Is all a still-standing, singular point in the universe, measured only by deterioration and cyclic, habitual births and deaths. A page turns, the chapter ends, you sigh and shut the book for the night; turning into to the warmth of bed, promises of future solace in vacant slumber fill the corners of your mind. Life, life, what is life in the face of tomorrow? A day in the looming shadow of a month, whereupon even he, the month, is overshadowed by the visage of the year. All melds into one line of time, or merely ceases mattering as its usage is spent.
I was feeling poetic, and now I am not. Time to pass on to the next second.
Adios.