measure of time
.
It seems like the clock is counting
its seconds, [tick]
minutes, [tock]
hours [tick]
and days [tock]
against me.
I rush and hustle
to keep up with time,
to grasp traces of now,
just missing them by
seconds, [tick]
minutes, [tock]
hours [tick]
and days [tock].
until they expand
into years
and a sequence of
un-experienced stories.
Is life an anagram for
almosts,
a euphemism of
spilled possibilities?
Do I really dare to die
upon a pile of
blank pages?
I know I will gray,
but I want to gray
with a mouth full of
adventures
and a tale-teller tongue.
So let's wind the clock
once more and make
every second [tick]
count [tock]
