The problem with the best things we possess
Is that they are so sure to rot and die.
Although we may not want to say goodbye,
It is a fact to which we acquiesce.
The good times that we use to decompress
Have limits with which we must just comply.
They are so limited in scope and time
Before they disappear like all the rest.
That is a fact which I just cannot grip.
T’is sad to know that I must move along.
So what happens once I have gone away?
These last few years have been a lovely trip,
And turning back will take all of my brawn,
As a heart breaks and says to me; “Please stay.”