You, Time, are who you are,
but for me time is a measure I require.
Hours and minutes,
countless breaths taken,
added until the day I watch my physical self expire.
Over these months that are a year,
as a year you come to wane,
me surviving still,
not yet killed off,
another book of days to which I’ve etched my name.
This is the last of me this year is likely to see
unless years come to repeat.
I don’t see that happening,
not in reality,
unless Time spins a roulette wheel when years must meet.
©December 2016, Christina Anne Hawthorne