That hour is gone—you’ll never get it back.
You’re wasting
minutes you won’t see again.
Plan all you want—unless you walk the track,
Each Now put off
till Later dies a When.
That whooshing sound is moments passing by.
That background
noise is me, slipping away.
That voice you hear says patience is a lie—
It yells out:
“So—what did you do today?”
No matter how you try, you’ll never fill me.
I am the tiny hole
in your life’s bucket.
Nothing can stop me, get me back, or kill me—
Your life’s a
feather, and one day I’ll pluck it.
So will that
life be goals you were pursuing,
Or lists of all
the things you could be doing?
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