The Passing Time

I live in a world full of passersby Each skin-clad soul, a moment Each skin-clad soul, ethereal to me A ghost in times of change They all turn and wander on They all move and twirl And love to be my moment's grasp But gripped, they change They wriggle and are free of me A vixen in the night A self-engaging fright They move to homes where I am not And linger there Awaiting husbands and boyfriends and wives Girlfriends and the like While I, engaged by time itself alone, am left To figure out the pieces where they lie And make sense of something That makes no sense at all.