I guess I never thought before
That time can be an enemy.
It marks its passage on the faces of the people you love.
And fades dreams
Until the passion once inspired is nothing more than a vague recollection.
You think, in youth
You have a grip on time
That you will never grow old
And that the good times will last forever.
But the days become weeks
Weeks become months, years,
And you realise that time has a grip on you
And where it grasps,
Its fingers bruise your flesh
Until “I want to” becomes “I wish I had”,
“I ought to” turns to “I should have”
And all your tomorrows become yesterdays.
The crowd around you thins…
The clock ceases to mark time and instead merely counts down.
And like a movie-montage of calendar pages torn away by the wind
Time paces steadily onward, dragging you in its fist.
© mjc 16 April 2005