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.
