Untitled, (age 16-17)

Time drips by,
with but a subtle hint of life gone past.

It creeps by,
leaving only the distant ticking of the clock on the wall.

It has no true form,
but gives slight clues, such as the gray hair of an old man's head.

Time is precious,
however it comes from a well which will never run dry.

Time is lonely,
but only for those who choose for it to be so.

Why is it that man,
unlike the universe, attempts to control time?

Perhaps it's because man,
unlike the universe, has a limit.


P~