They say we never know when our time's up.
Yet three things are indeed certain: the past, the present and the future.
But whatever the reason, whatever the nature,
The past the present and the future, are never cherished.
Never promised.
Not to you, nor me.
Who exactly is running this?
Who's in charge?
Is this yet another plane without a pilot?
For would speed things up when there's joy and slow things down when there's pain?
I blame you not, dear time, old friend.
But simply ask you to go easy on my poor heart.
For it beats and beats until it never beats again.
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