The ceaseless tick reminds me the moment is gone.
The moment is gone. The second hand cannot be stopped or slowed.
Only obeyed.
The hand moves forward into uncharted time, lockstep, yet to be experienced.
The hand cannot move backward truly.
The past is for memory unaffected by the moment. Never erasable.
The ticking, clicking, second hand stops for nothing, neither life nor death.
With each tick I know I am closer to dust and ash with passing time.
Only between the ticks I make my choice to respond to leave a legacy between the clicks of the clock.
May we live wisely. The clock ticks without ceasing to the next yet to know.
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