The Oxford Spokesman

Shifting Sands

My time is nearing, each grain of sand

that falls makes one more cell

inside me perish, makes

one more wrinkle on

my autobiography

called my skin.

My time is

nearing, each

day passes me by

faster and faster, leaving

behind my youthful self. My

time is nearing, each second makes

my eyes heavier: I am no match for gravity

I am no match for Chronos.