Tempus Fugit by Owen Jones

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Slowly he moves past us, unseen with mirth,
Millions scour the corners of the Earth,
But already the shadows appear,
Remnants of the passing legacy,
Eviscerating the fatal hopes we hold dear.

Moving seemingly slowly through life's dealings,
Naively following our one track feelings,
We can not envisage the grander scale,
A grain of sand on a beach
fear of the ever after makes us frail.

Solely are we, as one, to blame,
Overcomplicating that of which life is it's name,
Exuberantly structuring that which is chaotic,
Could we see, we would laugh at our own stupidity,
Could we hear, laughter would mock every heel click.

Unique are born of death to live,
Through money and family do we our homage give,
The cost of this knowledge is one,
Death is merely the golden bullet,
Time, through smoke, is the gun