Why does the sun set so quickly,

and the moon rise up to take it's place?

The days are going by.

Each day is a birthday candle,

lit, then blown out.

This second here now gone.

Why can't it stop just long enough

to grab hold of?

What is now is now then,

and what was then falls back to form now?

The days are circles.

Days to nights.

Nights to days.

Falling with each grain of sand

In the hour glass of life

Poetry © by Mark Ballard