A fleeting thought

Time dips it’s arrows in Vinegar. No doubt.
It wounds and adds to its injury salt.
Tugging at the strings of our life,
Day by day it draws the threads, until
In the end we are thread bare and worn thin.
And when we are picked clean, transparent,
When our strings are fine and frayed and in
The closing hours of the loom, it snips the chord,
And leaves the rest for the wind to spin.