How It Flies

How strange a thing, time.
Some moments seem everlasting, 
others agonizingly ephemeral:
all the sum parts of our raptures and sorrows flying away, away, like the arrow of Fate
loosed by our fingers into eternity.

How short a thing, time.
The measure of a man, barely the blink of an eye,
and the growth of a mountain range
is nothing compared to the lifespan of a star.
It is a seeming thing, shifting and changing,
even as it flows on like a river
whose course cannot be turned back.

How precious a thing, time.
Everyone grasps for it, 
some spend and some squander,
but no one ever has enough:
so many vital things left unsaid, undone,
for the sake of the monotonous tick of obligation,
until only an empty hourglass remains.

And so I etch myself words in my glass heart,
fearing not its breakage, but its neglect.

Remember to share your gratitudes,
in the instant it is felt, for others may vanish.
Remember to be kind and patient,
for the greatest gift is shared time.
Remember to be humble and forgiving,
so no wasteful wickedness may rob you.
Remember to apportion space for others,
as worthy as you of the sunlight.
Remember it is not a race to win,
but a journey to be savored in sweetnes and sorrow.
Remember feast and famine alike come and go,
each a preparation for the other.

Most of all in this world,
remember that nothing is permanent,
and all things are ever-changing,
for Time waits for no one—
already it is gone:
tempus fugit, memento mori.