5 a.m., off to work
6 a.m., huffs and puffs I am running late
8 a.m., mundane calls
10 a.m, mundane lunch
12 a.m., longing for it to to be 8 p.m.
tick, tock, tick, tock
hours and mintues pass
only to repeat again tomorrow.

He loses his beauty,
loses his grace,
loses his wit,
until he is no more,
until there is nothing left to pick.
He gives freely, begging the sky for grace.
But he is confined to hell, all in the name of those he loves.
Time does not forgive.