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
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Author:
Libellule (
Offline) - Published: April 21st, 2025 08:22
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 16
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
Excellent write
Clever word play in this poem to give it spice and flavor. A most wonderful write and a Fave
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