moments

drip, drop; tick, tock
as the water, as the clock
holds its petty, steady, pace
creeping, crawling, to a race

shifting, sifting, grains of sand
slipping through each aging hand
strips the soul of conscious breath
yet reveals no view of death

what’s in this; its pain, its bliss
in the thought, the choice, the kiss
if we know no youth, no prime
if we simply can’t tell time

life, so dear, of length, unclear
are your moments, as they near
touched by fate, at least in part
meant to stir the soul, the heart

so to break the will, the mind
from those best laid plans confined
from those schemes, so long conceived
so one’s dreams might be achieved

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