Time

Time,

Measured by a plastic disc,

Little hands go round and round.

Thomas Kincaid, picture of a perfect life,

the kind we all wish we had.

You find it on a shelf, the battery is dead,

Time has stopped moving on the clock,

Just like time stopped, for her, that day.

You remember when you got it, She said

"You paid too much." But really, you know she likes it.

How long has it been?

One year, three, five, ten?

No matter what the Clock says,

0r what the Calendar says, the moments always come,

Time dissolves away backward, and that day, was yesterday.

You plug new batteries in, and the hands move

across the picture of the perfect life, once more.

Life moves on, new people, new places, new goals to reach,

New mountains to climb, and you are grateful.

But the moments always come, When it was only yesterday.