Aren’t we all
The faded tombstone reads: sic transit gloria,
a maxim best experienced when etched.
The granite tries to puncture my euphoria,
as if the dead are seeking to, hands stretched,
to prove me wrong: no, you won’t live forever.
You’ll turn to dust like all of us below,
no matter how important or how clever,
You won’t succeed in getting time to slow,
much less to stand. You think yourself a pharaoh?
Like all the ones before who’d tried their hand
at bending the direction of time’s arrow
and slowing the relentless falling sand?
It lies, this faded, worn, decrepit stone.
I know, because the story is my own.
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