Time is against me
aided and abetted by the
hours that fly past me, it's
a blatant conspiracy.

I stop the clock to take stock but
my position remains,
me
locked in chains
on the edge of the precipice
wrangling over a minute when it seems to me
that time's resigned and dropped me
right in it.

Lines appear which the advertisements tell me
is a part of the process of aging, but can be
eliminated with this cream of that oil to foil
the advancing of years and yet
it's I who shed tears while time weaves its tale and
waves to me,
it's
a blatant conspiracy.