It's never to be a tight grip,
And the hands do slip off one another;
The yearning's for a nostalgic trip,
Then, as the sands change color.
Every moment - a finite tick of the clock,
Words poured out of the measure,
Dread follows every door knock,
Memory, indeed, is a fragile treasure.
Justly, perhaps, bands bear the bond,
On a day ordained to bow in deference
To the friendship that once was fond;
Wait, is it too late to mend the tense?
And the hands do slip off one another;
The yearning's for a nostalgic trip,
Then, as the sands change color.
Every moment - a finite tick of the clock,
Words poured out of the measure,
Dread follows every door knock,
Memory, indeed, is a fragile treasure.
Justly, perhaps, bands bear the bond,
On a day ordained to bow in deference
To the friendship that once was fond;
Wait, is it too late to mend the tense?
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