Time
Where is time going
when it overtakes me
in its speeding car
and leaves me lumbering
along life’s highway?
It’s after five to twelve
and the morning has flashed by.
The clock is about to strike,
and the afternoon draws near.
It too will vanish, a milestone,
millstone tied to day’s neck.
I remember the old days
when the big handed pointed to XI
and the small hand pointed to XII.
Now the clock is starting to strike.
I have left the last gas station way
behind me and my motor’s failing,
and my car is running out of gas.
rogermoorepoet 
For additional gas, attend Fictional Friends ….
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I’ll be there, Jane, asap. Thanks fr following me on this journey. Lots to tell you all.
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now the clock is starting to strike
Poignant, Roger. Time never stops…
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It does, though. Clare forgot to wind the grandfather clock while I was away. The big hand’s on the XI and the little hands n the IV.
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Lol. How funny. If it could only stop time for a while…
We can pretend!
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All those grey rabbits and Mad March Hares gamboling all over one’s skull!
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Time’s winged chariot . . . a telling metaphor, Roger.
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It’s the lumbering I hate, Roland! And all those gull-winged Mercedes!
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