hours, like a racehorse, charge away
the scorching sun is getting tired
and for dusk, it makes way
but I’m still here,
like one who,to an unmade bed is wired,
I’m still waiting, still wondering, still asking,
“will time ever wait for me?
I should snap out of this reverie
I ought to stop fighting
this urge that burns with rage
to glance at the wall clock that ticks away
but never seems to grow weary
But I’m still here,
with a mind that could pass for blank
but for the question
that strikes like a rattler’s fang
“why does time always have to go?”.
I am now convinced it is a spirit
what glues my eyes
to the screen of soulless images,
and my ears to the voices,
whose decibel, with the remote
i can always limit,
but I’ still here,
without the slightest trace of self-will
enchanted,no bewitched!
by the box on the wooden shelf,
but alas, I’m still left with a question,
this question,
“will I ever value my time?”
