Why then does time seem to fly
while I am merely trying to get by
make it through another day
holding tight to all that I say
As the seconds tick then tock
a symphony in every clock
I listen as the hands sweep
with every fresh tear I weep
For a prefer a lightly salted ink
when I pen what I then think
endless reams of filled paper
ready to serve as my taper
Waiting as the hour grows late
reminds me never to hesitate
in every fresh spill...
or I probably never will
Yet I come back to the sound
of these hours that compound
as if meant to simply arrest
collecting more and more interest