I grow old and
Time passes
Like sand slips through my fingers
As these gestures
Diminish into cliche

I grow weak and
Death welcomes me
In its fathomless unambiguity

As I cannot make sense 
Of all the thoughts and sensations
Of all the billions of people
I shall trip and fall before your alter
What will you think of me now?

The little blue frog goes prancing on its way