The Mortality of Everything

The cup of tea

I see

Is hot to touch.

But, in an hour—

Not so much.

My pristine desk:

A mess;

Clutter everywhere.

I search for things—

No longer there …

Wound-up clocks

Stop,

Standing oh so still.

Hands frozen—

With time to kill.

The Universe

Moves on,

Slowly winding down.

Imperceptibly shifts—

Without a sound.

& I watch,

Stunned

By the grace

Of its ill-at-ease—

Drifting in space.