What is to become of me
      I wonder as I breathe
            Pondering
        The hands of time
     How swiftly it passes by
          Evaporating
    Like a puddle in the street
            Or wilted
     Like a pink rose on a bush
That sprouts fresh invigorating buds
     The way that I once was
   Who knows of the wilted rose
   Shriveled by the blazing sun