If time is what we need, why doesn’t it pass fast enough.

To wash away the past, it doesn’t take us far enough.

In this life time there’s so much to bare, I could combust.

Is there even enough time?
For us to be us?

I fear that only time could tell, but there may not be enough.

What could time tell me, except there’s a possibility of us or no us?

In due time I tell me, but it proves not enough.

Maybe it would be best, if I simply self distruct.