Time

We race against a clock,

A constant we cannot suspend

A snare we can’t detect.

Time loans to us its minutes,

What seems to be a generous gift,

But underneath, it’s an illusion,

It doesn’t give to us,

it takes.

Fingers of forlorn reach into our souls,

And take what we thought was ours,

Second by second,

Without a sign of sympathy.

Copper carved memories lace the future,

A frivolity that unfolds against its will,

A gift not meant to be given.

We are all victims of time,

Though at first, it seems not so,

But it is a curious thing,

That when our silver moons have dimmed,

We lay still, motionless,

Captured in the earth’s warm embrace,

And wonder, what do we have left?

Time.