What’s the point of time past, it’s done, finished,
tomorrow matters so much more, but it looks empty
and mean, the coldness of that empty day aches
in my aging limbs. Gone has the speed of youth,
gone has the lust for living, and winning ways.
Today time has ticked slowly by, tick tock, tick tock.
Yet these vital seconds have vanished in a trice
down an empty space, invisible, vanished for eternity.
What can I bring to tomorrow? What can all this vanishing
past bring forward to give some future purpose?
Alas, the creative power of my youth is vanishing,
consumed by speeding, greedy time.
taken on the wind of time, each gust a day less to live.