Threescore and ten is an average, not a promise, and all too easy to take for granted.  
The years pass, not with the ticking of the clock, but with the silent hissing of sand through the center of an hourglass.  
Their passage is felt more than heard; their piling at the bottom a slow and subtle thing.
The fighter can grasp all he wants.  
He will never hold it all.  
In that fight, time is always the winner, and the grave always receives the trophy.

Winding and throwing
A blow like summer thunder,
He misses the mark