Time makes liars of us all, 
’tis as sure as the incoming tides, which do the shoreline taunt.
The ebbing flow of good intentions, 
drift out to a sea of reckless abandon. 
Life’s screenplay contains no stage directions, 
and so we do forget our lines, 
only to realise when we’re out of time.
I take the memory of myself, and hang it out to dry, 
yet still the creases do remain, 
and no salvation can I buy. 
I dance a dance with my future self, 
a waltz I ought to know, 
yet I always fall one step behind, 
and worry that it shows. 
I throw a pebble out to sea, 
I sit and watch it go, 
yet the traitorous tide brings it back to me, 
upon its steady flow. 
I write my fears and worries down, 
along with all my pain, 
I set aside an hour or two, 
and make a paper plane. 
I throw towards the horizon, 
watch it eaten by the setting sun, 
yet its contents are etched upon my mind, 
and from that I cannot run.