It's time to kill time, but when is there time for that?
We plan and plan and plan, but what's the point in that?
It's something that's eternal, never ending, never leaving.
But in the end what is left? When time is always fleeting?
We are bound to time, threw our cells always depleting.
To time we're the moments popping up and always leaving.
All things fade in time, whether stories or in rime.
Spoken words fade away, pages rot, time eats away.
So in the end what's left, if all things slip away?
What's it matter in the end? when matter is here to stay.
Just a blurb, no need to pay any mind.
It's something I too will hope to fade,