Thick like little tree trunks, the chubby legs of childhood run fast
Dashing madly across the lawn, as big as a field
Dodging boulder like rocks and fighting mighty dragon flies
The time shoots by
He's been outside for only a few minutes,
Days, turned to years
A hand that once held out flowers to mother now interlocks with another
The clock keeps spinning
His ring finger is breaking beneth the weight of his gold band
Unhappy he ages, youth lost in a backyard meadow
On his porch he rocks in a creaking chair, watching his grandchildren with an unwavering stare
With each push back the rocker clicks
With each move forward the time still ticks
He's gone now, being lowered into the ground now
Six feet under and sinking lower
His timer has buzzed but the clock won't stop spinning
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