Gaze through the glass at time's harsh path of scars
crisscrossed through furrowed contours of despair;
you wondered as you wandered under stars
if years would steal your flaunted youth and flair.

Time's not beguiled by mercy or regret
so often found deep down within one's soul;
an essence which finds life itself in debt
where usury will leave no digit whole.

The verity of vagaries composed
of surges then retreats must cause you pain,
as time imbues its subtlety imposed
upon the marrow of each day's refrain.

Begin the count to curse Charon's great toll;
the Ferryman demands your mortal soul.