Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Time Keeps Saying

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?

Copyright 2015 Matthew J Wells

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