How often have I held your tender hands?
Too few the times. Too many chances lost.
Consuming time, that nothing live withstands,
Pearls all the harm of age, or like a frost
That decorates a winter pane with freeze,
Its intricacies steal our steady minds
From what it means to drown in wasted seas,
Distracting us from where the journey winds.
I greatly doubt that ruling cautious bunch,
With charts and numbers, charting sterile plans,
Tippling predictions over bloated lunch,
Thus mark their days a little digit spans.
I wouldn’t with the billionaires make trade
Because our works and hands too soon will fade.

twl