The Time We Waste Poem by John Yaws

If I could make my pen a brush-
Express myself in art
I'd paint the breadth of human mind,
The depth of human heart.

The tenderness of maiden's love,
The glamor she can see-
Alas, in such a little while,
Comes stark reality.

The tragic unwed mother-
So sure, she'd be a wife,
The man "most likely to succeed"-
Now lives a drunkards life.

The clock of life is wound but once-
Or so I've heard it said:
Just a few remorseless ticks,
And they will find you dead.

To die is not a horrid thing-
It's cup we all must taste.
The greatest tragedy of all-
Is precious time we waste.