So slow, the flow of time, as she creeps slowly
into the next of what is to be.
To make the morrow is not the sorrow
But as a dream, for a better to see.
And yet, the more we want, the more to taunt
Us will not come before is naught.
Turn has come and has yet to express
That which just before may have been more or less.
The passing cannot be from thee or the three,
Because you see it may be something so free
As a little bee or you or me.
Now it comes unbid and welcome even as I speak,
In the beginning a sound like ramblings of a creek.
A funny thing today you see,
A light so bright yet warm, not hot, on the cheek.
The many wonders we ponder as we go to the next,
We will get there, you and me, like climbing a tree.
So I will get there, but how?
Will I be there when I go through
Or will I pass as a shadow,with faint faded hue.
I'm not dreaming, you're not scheming, What am I 
worried for, 'cause maybe I've been here before, 
Through the past and present doors. 
But one I know well when they all coincide
For where I have been, trying to get to the otherside,
Not to say but to have been.
The only more for me was the sky,
To fly, to fly so high in the sky,
To fly, to fly and stay so, so high.
This one is gone but more is to come,
All that matters is this time is done.