Time’s hands turn

with ne’er a regard

for the meaning in the

offing, but only w’the

constant need to plow 

on ahead, past all

wha’ is into the next

iteration of all we shall

ne’er be able to grasp

or hold onto.  So slow

it down w’the steadiest

glance y’can muster -

staring straight into

whate’er y’may befall

with a crazy gale o’laughter

tha’ belies your understanding

tha’you are but dust.  Dust.

Nothing but dusty dust.