Time slips thru my fingers , like the water of the lake, or the sand at the playground in the park where I used to play.
Not enough of it can I make, the need seems a thirst impossible to slake.
The attempt to conserve, the effort to save, seems futile in the face of ones grave.
Wilting away with the autumns last flowers
And with winter freezing the reach of this writers mind
Ultimate disaster this lack of time!