My eyes are awry,
My nose too large,
My teeth are all crooked,
My back unnaturally arched,
My hips are wide,
My love handles are many,
My feet appear calloused,
My nails are all chewed.

Each characteristic,
An imperfect fragment,
A part of the complex puzzle,
That is,
A,
Perfect me.

It creeps upon us when we least expect ,
it watches and waits,
one must never forget,
it lies in wait,
preempting our mistakes.

While children play aimlessly,
running about,
it is waiting in the wings.
We grow old,
yet it is ironically rushed,
never expecting to be caught up.

We know it is there,
but we turn a blind eye.
'It's not my time,
I am young,
It does not wait for me.

We expect nothing more of time
than to tick past slowly
with the changing of the seasons.
We expect to grow old
and wise,
then to eventually die.

Yet nothing in this life is certain,
except that it is waiting,
constantly watching.

Waiting for us to falter
to allow the skipping of a heart beat.
Waiting for the clock hand to stall,
for time and existance
to melt away
- slowly
into the darkness.