Sonnet 60

Time is a gift whose measure is unknown
Save that our lives are metered in its’ sands,
And metaphors of sand have often shown,
Fine particles slip through the strongest hands.
A minute wasted is a minute lost;
An hour dawdled never is regained,
There time so tallied mounts its’ righteous cost
And life thus squandered does fair gift defame.
As precious minutes slide through narrowed glass
So does sweet life slip forward to its end,
And surely as this day shall come to pass,
Tomorrow can’t its’ yesterday amend.
Then mark these words and measure hence your time-
As metered worth makes measure of this rhyme.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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