Nine hundred months
Within an average life.
More than I care to count,
In a mere sack of coins.
One third through this life,
I'm just at its three hundredth.
How shall I spend the rest,
Before death taxes them?
How much of it is wasted,
On things I leave behind?
I move past them ever faster,
As I feel the weight lightening.
How is this one month no more,
Than another decade's percent?
Were I to do nothing but wait,
I would not even get impatient.
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