Time

Years pass, memories filled with stories fine and fraught.
Narrative thoughts, line upon line, crowd the diary.
Some pages totaled, others void, no trace of record.

The gift we've got is unrelenting, yet short of recognition.
Wasted like running water waiting for the touch.
Away it's gone unrecovered, ever lost upon us.

What could be read of us if such was held precious?
Pages without number would not be enough.

As for me, I'll drink the drop; embrace the moment, all 'til the end.
Of me wondrous tales told, "He got it!" imaginative yet true.
And just maybe they'll place a bucket under the spout.