We struggle, we pine, to turn back some time.
We struggle, we pine, to turn back some time. We whisper, we cry, but time keeps on flying.
It spreads out its wings, in continuous flight.
It spreads out its wings, in continuous flight. It glides through the air, leaving us in despair.
annoyingly long [afterword]: Yay, another piece about time. I began thinking about the possibility of rewinding time, and ended up writing a 10+ stanza poem. I decided it was way too long, so I re-wrote it. I wrote this because, well, procrastination is something I excel at. Hahaha . . . *sigh* I also regret a bunch of things.
If we could rewind time, would we lose the memory of rewinding time, and end up making the same exact decision which we wanted to avoid? Is this a paradox?
And, in all honesty, I didn't give you the 10+ stanza version because as I wrote, it ended up becoming a sappy love story. I re-read it, cringed, and re-wrote it. That's the real reason why. Ehehehe . . . I apologize for this long afterword. Thanks for reading!