Each moment is a mere
wisp shy ghost time frame so
expeditiously
translucent and flighty

through the tick tock eons
of clock face dust and the
yellow aged newspapers
frail and delicate old type

casting remnant shadows
of second hands minutes
blink the spectres of that
briefness can either kill

us or cure us but it’s
freewill or fate that make
us feel regret for that
millisecond just gone