Like it or not, time has no faults.
While your days come to a halt,
You will hear that dutiful chime;
The truth about the passage of time.
Wherever you had pitched your tent.
You are here as a mere mill agent,
With the sound of every tick of the clock,
A little less of life is gone from your time lock.
Whether you have the shear effect
Or have it all matted to a pitch perfect;
Ready or not, the truth separates the false,
The final answer is in only where you’ll fall.
The power of will will wither to irrelevance,
As you pass like a rolling flatulence.
Did your redolence blanket life in fratulence?
Will your end sentence be written in virulence?