On wings of speed the time flies by;
     With cheerless haste it goes.
It vanishes before our eyes
     Like fields of melting snow.

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Each mindless minute slips away,
     Each hour, each month and year;
The days of youth, our middle years,
     Too quickly disappear.

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Christmastime soon comes and goes,
     Then Easter’s here again,
But the speed at which the clock ticks on 
     Is for everyone the same.

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If you are rich or you are poor,
    From the day of your first breath,
You’ll never slow your clock of life
     Until you meet your death. 

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Copyright on all my poems

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