It speeds and slows
yet no matter how crisp the air
or how beautiful the sunset,
I’ll always know
I tell a tale of yearning,
yearning for it to s–l—o—-w,
knowing it goes faster
I’m still reaching
waiting to stop the slipping.
Slipping, slipping, slipping down,
I grab out,
always praying to stick my hands on that clock,
yet biting my nails on the days I pray for claws
lying in the anxiety and fear,
a space filled, only in the absence of memory
anything to fill that time, fill that thought.
The prospect of a new promotion?
First date?
Like shoveling dirt into the grave,
living to forget about each moment,
but always forgetting to live in them
because there I can hide,
in solace and denial,
denying the clock, as
it speeds and slows.
