In vain I try to jump into the photoTo create again a time so simpleThat a piece of paper might encapsulate itFrom the erosive winds and waves of timeWhich bring even the greatest of loves to a grave of dust.

We are a handful of dust in God’s imageBefore we return again to dusty graveLife isn’t a war, it’s a scrimmageA hyphen between two dates.

Fate is the cruelest of masters, takingLife when it pleases or at random, handingRigged decks to whom it pleases, cheatingAll alike and none the wiser, takingEverything away from those with nothing.