The Steadfast March of Time

The saddest thing about Time, I think,
is how it marches on.
All steady, it doesn’t miss a beat;
each moment to the next is gone.

Time’s stalwart march keeps changing things.
Constant, it leaves nothing alone.
Fast or slow, but reliably,
it alters houses, rivers, and stone.

Time will turn a well-built home
into rotting, falling-down logs
and shift or dry up rivers,
leaving parched land or stagnant bogs.

The saddest thing about Time, I think,
is its relentless one-way track.
No use bargaining for a change of pace,
or begging for a brief step back.

We cannot keep a precious hour
or save people dear to our hearts,
so we who care are left bereft
when Time pulls us apart.

We may think our lives important
and our deeds uniquely great,
but Time will soon erase us.
For no one does Time wait.

We each are just a tiny blip
in the eternal stream of Time.
In eons hence, will there be a hint
of our work, our thoughts, our rhymes?

The saddest thing about Time, I think
is how it marches on.
Experience each moment, dearly,
for as quickly as it comes, it’s  gone.