The Passing of Time

Time is like a sputtered clock,

Waiting for its gun to cock,

The time is now, it will explode,

Along its trail, death does bode,

At a moment, it once exists,

Like a wild beast, it persists,

Drunken madness and resentment follow,

Like the insignificant rice-filled swallow,

In an instant, it has come and gone,

The jagged immature fingers up from lawn,

This ocean filled with fish,

Only one type can ever exist,

The one of joy and fate well followed,

In its aftermath, we will wallow.