Memories are imprinted,
and fleeting minutes,
they fade like polaroid stills,
dimmed by the flight of time,
the banal and the sublime.
Years trickle by,
stubbornly trudging ahead,
straining to embrace echoes of nostalgia,
yearning to hold them near,
seeking new memories,
carved by the trail of a lonesome tear.
Tomorrow may not arrive,
as it lies at the mercy,
of time's fickle flight,
and as it slips under the blanket of night,
it flees into the arms,
of a hope, warm and bright.
The flight of time sounds its warning bell,
with smug assurance it beckons all,
to hear the tale it has to tell,
knowing someone must heed its call.
Time flies, and rapidly too,
teasing us with promises of days yet to be born,
and so we linger, wasting slices of precious time,
as we walk on,
numb and in an anaesthetised trance,
devoid of all passion,
ever weary to take the plunge,
or to hazard a chance.