What’s time want with the all the shit
It steals? Eyes already dim, ears
Already dull, rotten teeth, hair
Just barely rooted, knees ready to quit,
Transparent skin, knotted guts, hearts
About to stop? Why not swipe ’em
At the peak, when there’s value still
In these and other stolen parts?
But no. Time bides itself, so to speak,
Until the dim and dull and weak
Cannot afford even one more theft
And then swoops down to take what’s left.
Nothing it might fence, you understand.
Just what’s clutched in some bony hand.
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