There is no time to waste,
we don’t know how long we’ve got.
Where we’re going, when it’s over,
after we burn, after we rot.
Our legacy will fade,
faster than a photograph,
Our names chiselled in stone,
no one reads our epitaph.
But we go about our days, as if we’ll never die.
Not ready to meet our maker, face the:
Man with the scythe.
The wisdom of our old age,
can’t console the youth we lost.
Though beauty’s only skin deep,
for the most it’s all they’ve got.
And as our years advance,
time’s tick accelerates,
as if the Gods are laughing,
laughing in our wrinkled face.
©29.7.2019 Andrew Robert Chapman