by Ian Colville
All time is what we measure with that clock,
it transits then to now and goes away,
our time is here and ticking down its tock.
On swings the pendulum, we stare in shock;
foregone, the strands of time that flew today,
for time is what we measured by that clock.
An hour contained in glass will ever mock,
though sands of time may somehow go astray,
its march will not be heard without its tock.
How quick the sand that dares to run amok
before the glass is turned the other way,
our time is what we measure by the clock.
One day your life will end at once, en-bloc,
no bonus added to postpone, delay
your time will be undone, without its tock.
So gauge your compound worth in taking stock,
join up the timeless dots, a life's assay;
your time is done as measured by that clock
when time is still, a tick without its tock.