The grief of Time
Hey my dear Steemians, been thinking about this a lot lately. It eventually crystallized as some lines of poetry. Please upvote if you understand Father Time's grief.
Father Time in silent grief
Stare in utter disbelief
As seconds burn in wanton slaughter
On altars of idle chatter.
Wasted years none can reclaim
Sons of men should know the same
For what's the gain of idle utterance:
Time consuming, lacking substance?
The quality of one's years
Lies not in volume of days
For history shall only recount
How one made one's seconds count.
(I promised a post on snuffing out one of our collective demons. It'll be here in a bit... wink)