Sitting at the kitchen table in still, wee hours of the morning,

I'm minded to ponder the brevity of this living,

The way it slips through your fingers without prior warning,

And we forgive it its speed, though to us it's unforgiving,

The clock ticks and each second passes irrespective,

Of whether we care if it does or not,

And it doesn't pay to wonder why, because from my perspective,

Time is not selective, it just is what it is and that's our lot,

But at least I know I filled each precious ticking with fulfilment,

So it doesn't hurt too much when I sit and take stock,

Because whether I noticed them or not the passing seconds still went,

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.