Time

We always have more time —
Until we don’t.
Though we hold it with an iron grip,
It slips away, regardless. 

We never plan to have regrets —
Until they come.
And unlike time, it takes much more
To wash regret away. 

You always had the words to say —
Until they left you.
And when the words came back like a flood,
They tore apart your heart as you cried.

You always could have said what you wanted
But the words were blinded
By the light of their own existence.
A life well lived, a proof of enduring permanence.

A steady ship of mind and bone, 
Relatively here you know
And only ever gone with death’s grip, 
Clearly within sight, yet painfully out of reach.