Dazed, they squandered

their halcyon days, 

fearing a suffering

that hadn't yet come;

 

Deaf to the psithurism

whispering of 

the evanescence

of all that's

here to pass;

 

For what's sculpted

out of consciousness

and concocted 

into experience

is but quicksilver, 

no time to dither, 

no preface to the grimace

made by Chronos' quicksand, 

as it readies to devour

everything you've been,

everything you are...