Why must you mock me Father Time?
I know you are no friend of mine.
You rush me from my baby girl,
with each rotation of this world.
And, yet, my future dreams hold still.
No forward movement is fulfilled.
I wonder if you plan the ways,
through seconds, moments, hours, and days
to slow me down on thoughts of grief,
and speed through moments of belief?
That something better is to come,
that this battle can, indeed, be won.
That maybe in some future space,
a genuine smile will claim this face,
as in my arms I hold a child,
whose future has not been defiled.
By Disease. Infection. Despair.
A child whose shot at life is fair.
But until then, I tick away,
day after repeat grueling day,
knowing time since I held her won't slow.
With each tick-tock, more of her will go.
To be lost to the weakness of memory.
I can feel her drifting out from me.
Your cruel visits come with each hour's chime.
How dare they call you "Father" Time?
No man whose loved or held his heir,
could turn his back on this despair.
I beg you, make this cycle cease,
Please speed through pain. Please slow on peace.