Time Is A Wicked Thing

It burrows deep under your skin,

An invasive cancer that wants to eat

And devour you like a wicked beast.

For some unlucky few it consumes,

Souring all that is good and true.

Despoiling an otherwise pleasant life.

The counting of days, weeks, months, years

Is a fruitless way to pass the time,

Wasteful of what we have been granted.

Weighing what is passed

And what is still to come,

Placing them on a balance

Watching it’s uncertain tipping to and fro.

What a waste of what we have,

What a waste of what we’re given.

Time is a most wicked thing.

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