I am the artist of time, the sculptor of fate, The whisper of dawn when midnight is late. Some chase me, some dread me, yet all will agree Without my touch, what’s meant to be, will never be.

I’m something that would bother you when encountered in a computer program, and you would not want to feel me crawling on your skin. What am I?

I stand tall in golden fields, my kernels whisper secrets of harvest meals.

On the horizon I might appear, but when you arrive there is nothing here.

I make white and brown balls, Known to break after falls. And when I reach a crossroads, The other side calls.