Time, relentless in its passage,

Marches forward, forever in different,

Leaving in its wake a trail of memories,

Once ever so vibrant, and full of life,

Now tinged with the stains of regret.

For it is in the wake of reflection,

That the heart weighs the burdens of yesterday,

The could have’s, the if only’s,

And the heavy load of days gone by.

These are the quiet moments,

When the scale is often tipped,

By choices made, by words unsaid,

Thus desolate and baron is left the heart.

For the cruel hand of time spares no one,

It obliterates whatever’s in its path.

Leaving only shadows in its wake,

And a silent tear to fall for all that’s lost.

The clock is a thief, with a tricky art,

And with every monotonous tick,

Opportunities shrivel into the shadows,

Slipping away, like quicksand,

Through the grasp of our eager fingers,

To be carried away with the wind.

Regret is the haunting refrain,

Of a beautiful melody cut short,

Teaming up with time, the deadly duo,

To wash away the face of all we love.

And as everything we love fades away,

Far, far away, Into the mist,

To mingle with the dust of what once was,

And the ashes of the dreams that we once dreamed,

All that we once held so dear,

Is swallowed by the hungry void,

Scattering the vast expanse, like stars,

To see, but not to hold.

But the cruelest, most clever trick of time,

Is not in what it rips from our grasp,

But in all of the wisdom it bestows,

Much too late to be of any good.