The years turn to days,
days to minutes.
No time in space,
but on Earth, limits.
The seasons are fast,
and you realize,
life doesn’t last,
as you fly to the skies.
We are forlorn,
Simply candles that burn.
We mourn,
no matter people turn,
to memories.
And memories are forgotten,
never revived.
they are buried as corpses,
shriveled.
Everything ends,
even memories.
Do what you will with that.