As seconds fall

Time is a fickle thing we ponder in It can not be altered, re-sculptured, moulded to shape though people anticipate, according to fate Its pace is steady, at a constant rate from cradle to grave; things will occur things imprinted so firmly like ink Maybe this could slightly deter Your thoughts of sin link to link We will never be satisfied with what time brings us The present is not a gift wrapped in bows Or perhaps it’s the yearning that brings us our woes It can have its atmospheric highs and mantle reaching lows We can only find happiness with nature; at mountain tops but no-man will reach this until time stops