Who is the most tragic: the first to die, the last, or those of us between them?

Time is the most relentless
Of foes.
It does not care
Who, or what, you are,
Or what you want
Or what you don't want.
It does not care to know
Of those it marches over
In its quantum stampede
Into eternity.
It is absolute
And single minded,
Blind to all
But the line running
Before it,
As well as its own
Unhesitating momentum.
We puny humans seek to defy it
And reverse it,
We curse it
And bemoan it
As if it were
A kind of distant alien cousin
Capable of feeling guilt.
But how can it feel remorse
When life is as nothing to it?
We would do well to remember,
And to accept, that
Life and the living
Are but gravel
To be crushed
Again and again
Beneath its soulless
Steamrolling
Boots.