The passing of time

Temporal wealth was never the point.

It's the silent passing of time which could disappoint.

The ongoing decades we couldn't notice,

Slid trough the fingers of our world of focus.

Leaving footsteps in places we never return to,

Looking at the future we were told to pursue.

But soon, when the evening arrives,

That's the sudden clarity which finally makes me realise.

We traded our days for a promise of gold,

But forgot that our youth could never be sold.

The ticking sound of clocks in our house,

Summons both the past and our doubts.

While dust settles on aged furniture,

We lose our lives and its quiet signature.

And before the final silence claims the place,

I leave a shadow of my fading, pale face.

Marosán Eszter XII. H