I can't count how many times

I've seen the wooden box.

Void of toys and games,

or childish little props.


One of polished mahogany

with a deep blush of red,

spilling with sorrow and silence,

and housing the dead.


A body stuck in slumber,

trapped in a dreamless sleep,

with skin of the palest white,

and eyes unable to weep


for the loss that is theirs,

for the people left behind.

A life never lived;

A life always resigned.


Forever in her 'glory days',

blessed with immortality,

she remains a picture of youth

and content in her vanity.


If you saw her that way,

living on the clock,

you wouldn't be so quick to judge

with narrowed eyes that mock


the way we live in our moment

before the time runs out.

The sand is pouring too fast

and, sadly, there's no doubt.


You call us flippant and spoiled;

obsessed with what is spent.

Maybe if you knew the speed of time,

you'd understand how much it meant.