It is a crime committed by them all,
Large, small, short, or tall.
It will not stop, this crime,
For it is a matter of time.

The tick brings on the tock,
And in it we see a lock.
One that we cannot break,
Or with us try to take.

Rather it has taken us,
Farther into its rust.
It seeps like sand,
In and out of our hand.

Its degrading nature,
Predicts our future,
Points to our demise,
And then passes us by.

Around and around it goes,
When it stops no one knows.
But with each wind,
It eats our precious time.

With each bite of its teeth,
It gives us no relief.
Slowly it devours skin,
And burns us within.

Their crime is their time,
While we sit and pine.

 
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