Time

Hark how life doth fly through its light of lyme,
Its perfect time being now, its future gone,
As a gentle wind, it is but a brief smear in time.

With gewgaws and trinkets our lives we do line,
Trying to make some use of that we do not understand.
Hark how life doth fly through its light of lyme.

The head, the drop, our life in its light of lyme,
it ends and the smudge disappears, and we are gone.
As a gentle wind, it is but a brief smear it time.

Eschew the trinkets, the life without sense of time.
Build on work, let none say: “There goes a useless man”
Hark how life doth fly through its light of lyme.

Then the trail, the smear will linger through time,
Beyond the drop, through history, telling its own story.
As a gentle wind, it is but a brief smear in time.

And that life well lived will say to surrounding time,
“my smear has surpassed your quest to quell it potent bite.”
Hark how life doth fly through its light of lyme,
as a gentle wind, it is but a brief smear in time.

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