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.
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
Damn all that I want
The seconds, their rhythm
How perfect they seem
The song they sing
As though you are here
Championing their entrance
Into the hours, the Days