Time is a beach,
only water and sand,
nothing else in between
the wet fingers of my hand.
One ends and the other begins.
The future forever becoming the past,
and the present just an illusion,
to make me think time can last.
I wade into the wake
if just for a short while,
so I can catch a glimpse
of your sweet fading smile.
But the light from your eye
like the light from a star
is light from the past
no matter how far.
Time indeed marches on.
We slip in and out of its wave,
building our sandcastles,
looking for something to save.
The passage of time is no ally.
From minutes to hours the years go by.
From long decades to years,
only hours and minutes lie.
I watch the sun arc across the sky.
I count the lines on my face.
I listen to the clock mark the seconds fly.
And my arrow, its arc almost complete
moves ever closer to the sea,
upon which someday
its tarnished tip will be.