The golden, sparkling, gritty sand,

Of each moment of every day,

Fulfills our most ancient demand,

The price that we must pay.

 

Mortality, our genetic curse,

Our lives does dominate,

For the image of our crooked hearse,

Makes us decide our fate.

 

In war and peace and love and hate,

As death comes rushing up at me,

My life I live and motivate,

When faced with grim mortality.

 

Our lives until our moment of death,

Revolve around the Sands,

The time till our dying breath,

Measured by the clock hands.

 

A decade or two a score or more,

Then years and months in morbid haze,

Our world is death up at its core,

And time heralds our dying days.

 

More time prolongs a concepts demise,

A task, a journey, a quest,

Less time holds faster death as prize,

And we ask, and so we are blessed.

 

But merely the simple glance at a clock,

Or counting of minutes from birth,

Is comfort for those who put stock,

By our life cycle on Earth.