Outflow

Now the time is ever-flowing out of me
A finite store that someday will expire
And as it leaves, I live. I cannot be
Except by its departure. Should I mire
That flow, or try to dam it, I would cease
To live - and to experience that life.
Nor would that ceasing bring me any peace,
Although perhaps it would remove all strife,
For peace is something. Nothing is not so:
It is a void, a vacancy, a nought.
From nothing nothing ever comes to grow
Nor can I think the absence of my thought.
Therefore although my days will shorten, I
Would not choose not to live just not to die.