Time

Where’s the value, where’s the worth?
In the days I walk this earth?

What here, is most scarce and limited,
That wasting it would feel prohibited?

It’s not ideas, goodwill or truth.
It’s not the wonder found of youth.

Not my feelings and not my reason.
But maybe time, the mark of seasons.

I have but only so much time,
In this world, this life, this rhyme.

For more time, how I would pay.
To get to live a longer day.

How can I pay for more time?
For that I’d give my last dime.

Is that required, is that true?
Is that what I need to do?

To pay a toll for more time?
Or is it something more refined?

To spend my extra, my abundance,
Things created in redundance.

The things that never get used up.
With those I’ll fill my growing cup.

And keep it filled and pouring fine.
What are these boundless things of mine?

It’s ideas, goodwill and truth.
It’s wonder I have held since youth.

It is my feelings, thoughts and reason.
And too it’s time, the mark of seasons.

Let it go, let it flow freely,
To anyone who needs, ideally.

To love again, and to forgive,
To enhance this time left to live.

And with this time, I’ll just give more.
Then time won’t matter anymore.

For each moment, now until. . .
Until I see my time stand still.