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?