Time

This is a poem I wrote on a rainy night.

What is time exactly? 

It goes on and on forever, 

With every tick tock of the clock, 

Slowly breathing my life away. 

One second goes by, 

I let my guard down, 

To find that the sun is sinking, 

And the stars light up the night. 

Am I getting wiser, 

With each day passing, 

Forgetting who I am, 

Stopping to think of yesterday. 

There will be no end, 

A life lived tragically, 

Bittersweet memories stay, 

As I slowly waste away. 

Author's Note

Please, comments and critique are welcome.

Reviews

[Dayran]

Hermann Hesse ... the author of Siddharta says ... ' When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.'

The answers certainly rely on the questions ... and your poem raises it well.

[Baby Ricochet]

There's different kinds of time. Like the time we use today was instilled upon us by the railroad back in the 19th century. There's the way time moves when your stuck in traffic or time during hot sex or writing a flippant review. Like what Einstein probably never actually said but it sounds like he should have "It's all relative."