As It Runs Out Poem by Christopher Soto

As I stand on the edge of endless fabric,
time slips away from under me, as sand does on the side of a dune.
I can hear the bell of the central clock nearing it's final toll,
and I slowly watch the present feed into my mind.
For the past is not real, as the real which we know.
It is nothing so physical as the leaves that wild wind blows.
Admittedly guilty of the future that nears, I'll enjoy these last moments,
I'll stretch them for a year...