When time flys,

It soars,

Taking to the air like greedy birds of prey.

Gone are childhood playthings,

Plastic relics of imagination and glee,

Long grown cold from disuse.

Dreams and aspirations are too left behind,

Crammed into metal cabinets,

And slipped into borrowed books.

How tolerable would time be,

If growing old didn’t mean losing the very things,

That made us feel alive.