Time recedes, becomes the past,
leaving us, jetsam, on the present shore
or figure head on the prow of life, the last,
all will hear is time's fast receding roar.
ground down by time, become the detritus,
the figure head? a totem, nothing more,
round which dance the dust of the rest of us
spewed out of time's, fast retreating maw.
The future to come, to be the present,
comes swift, willingly to lend
this fleetingly brief presence,
then, without fuss, breathes end.