Time

Do you, as I, daily perform an unending juggling act with the hours, grasping at fleeting minutes, feeling, by sundown, famished for time?

Who of us doesn’t wish to artfully turn the wretched clock into origami art that would sit silent and still on the wall and evidence beauty instead of lack?

Were it possible, I would wave my surely magic arms, and weave into the moments a stop gate, then take eternity to tell you, thank you, you were right, and I love you.

Cure

The clock, alarming and as a storm, swirling seemingly sideways
Faster, more red and ominous than my 1am pro·pri·o·cep·tors

The gyroscope, spinning and my brainy mind righting itself
Stronger, my legs are and I swear to all that Is holy, I’ll not fall