The ends we face
Has a face of a clock
With hungry ticking hands

Loss is a shadow which fades
Like all mortal things of men,
In time, lost in ill thoughts,

Over time's mindless swallowing
Each second, hands minutely giving

Minutes to hours men forsake
For they are
Aging, passing as quickly
As the days
Lives looking ahead
Regretful of yester--
Years wrinkled on faces

Mortality: a wink of a wrinkled eye
Blink & You may miss
At the end, face it.

All hungry things
And wrinkled hands
Of clocks,
At the end - never again.

(A Hungry thing).