We rebel to the knell of years in vain
Betrothed, as if it were to Father Time
Where none escapes the clock's possessive chime
But learns to grapple with its startling reign
We cannot quell the toll that sweeps the earth
From sprout to golden wheat to harvest hymn
The light on eastern skyline soon grows dim
As daily death usurps dawn’s daily birth
What have we here, but hints of Something More?
Where Something More makes worth the while of this;
The laughter dear, the tear of farewell’s kiss
Where little tittle, Time, is but a Door
Darling, life’s eventide is ebbing near
-er, nearer with each rise and set of sun
Soon dies the Thing we thought barely begun
Set in a silhouette of yesteryear
We, beg and borrow shod, are each denied
Access to the entrance where echoes cling
To tatters of an ever-fraying string
That soon points out the pointlessness of pride
Therefore we, kindred folk of circumstance
Because of our betrothal to tick-tock
Should make the most of its ephem’ral stock
And live as if This might be our last dance
© Janet Martin
Man, who is born of woman,
Is short-lived and full of turmoil.
Is short-lived and full of turmoil.
“Like a flower he comes forth and withers.
He also flees like a shadow and does not remain.
He also flees like a shadow and does not remain.
Job 14:1-2
