The hands of Father Time
seem relentless, he waits
for none of us.

With the coming of each season,
the millions of reasons to live
fade a little more, yet we
continue to fuss,
make excuses
to wallow in the mire.

It quenches our fire,
makes our souls more restless,
prone to wanderlust
& frustration,
a form of mental castration.

I want my ***** back
before I die lonely!