Senseless Time

I search for myself in a senseless time.
Sometimes my search is a senseless rhyme.
A right of passage to my old age,
the thought of enduring a serious stage?
It's not enough all I need, could be such, while I breathe?

Yesterday and today and what of tomorrow,
and the fiddler you paid and what of the sorrow?
Sure there was laughter and joy at sometime,
an occasion to capture an interesting line.
But they just didn't last, they didn't quite do,
and now that their past, I find that there through.

What of the miles I've come quite a ways,
and yes all the while I've run up my days.
There are some that search and some never will,
some that move and some that stand still.
I search for myself in a senseless time,
could it be anything else than a senseless find?