The clock’s low murmur never seems to wait,
A thief that steals the sunlight from the door.
We learn too late that time is not our fate.

The morning’s gold dissolves to ash by eight;
The plans we made are ghosts on yesterday’s floor.
The clock’s low murmur never seems to wait.

We beg the hour to linger, stand and sate
Our hungry hands—but time, the ocean’s roar,
Won’t teach us late that time is not our fate.

The child who ran now measures every gait;
The mirror’s truth is what we can’t ignore.
The clock’s low murmur never seems to wait.

So light a match against the dark, though great
The shadow grows; let one small blaze restore
What we learn late: that time is not our fate,

But only rhythm—heartbeat, wave, and weight
Of love we hold one moment, then outpour.
The clock’s low murmur never seems to wait.
We learn too late that time is not our fate.