The Measured clock has lost its pace,
And the life it keeps, now poorly guards.
So death, can creep along its trace,
And he with Scythe, sends his regards.
We rally now, to regain the passion,
With drugs and potions, the fight is fought.
We win a day, of apportioned ration,
But was ever time, so dearly bought.
The tide of power, just ebbs away,
And with it, life’s lustre fades.
Grey lethargy holds you, in its sway,
And cold despair, plans its raids.
But if you don’t rage,
Gan’st Dylan ’s good night.
Or gentle, close the page,
On life, lived right.
You’ll regret the sights,
you should have seen.
and mourn the lights,
that could have been.