Festina Lente (Sonnet 22) Poem by Larry Lynn

Life's measurement in years to pass seems quick,
but hours, too, are seen not long to last;
and minutes, seconds, - they are worse to pick:
The time I use to count is gone too fast.
I see my time as if a cup were poured
from all eternity, a tiny slice
assigned to me, my self, to be endured,
that random time that must for me suffice.
I know not when it was supposed to start,
not when, how long, or how I will be dead-
when bodies from their given souls depart -
when fates have deemed to snip their measured thread.
Not knowing how much time is left to go
is why in life and love I hasten slow.