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Description
the clock ticking on the wall
upsets the quiet with a reminder.
hamster on a wheel
needs to begin another day.
rush about; here and there
the hustle and bustle of mortality.
each second precious,
it ticks away so quickly
as though time itself speeds up
and becomes oblivion
flying headlong into eternity.

eternity, oh what a word!
the void ahead of all humans.
a vacuum, wishing to suck one
into its infinite abyss;
yet there are never enough days
upon the calendar.
days filled with duty -
work, sustenance, sleep.
far too little of the latter;
attempting to cram everything
humanly possible
into twenty-four hours,
seven days,
fifty-two weeks,
a hundred years.
escaping the inevitable.

the rat race.
ants marching all around.
problems solved,
leaving hundreds in its wake.
unable to even cure my own ailments.
(physician, heal thyself.)
the ebb and flow,
the wax and wane,
in a hurry just to die at last.
being buried within a coffin
placed beside deceased loved ones
mourned by the crowd of painted smiles.
he was a good man
wasn't he?
so admirable;
so virtuous.
as the crowd disperses
into their own hurried frenzy.

the clock which mocks the living
continues ticking
despite every effort
to slow its eerie cadence.
when at last, it stops.
and all is quiet,
all is black,
all is null and void.
never enough hours within the day.
fleeting mortality,
slipping through my fingers
like sand through
the hourglass.

Description
the clock ticking on the wall
upsets the quiet with a reminder.
hamster on a wheel
needs to begin another day.
rush about; here and there
the hustle and bustle of mortality.
each second precious,
it ticks away so quickly
as though time itself speeds up
and becomes oblivion
flying headlong into eternity.

eternity, oh what a word!
the void ahead of all humans.
a vacuum, wishing to suck one
into its infinite abyss;
yet there are never enough days
upon the calendar.
days filled with duty -
work, sustenance, sleep.
far too little of the latter;
attempting to cram everything
humanly possible
into twenty-four hours,
seven days,
fifty-two weeks,
a hundred years.
escaping the inevitable.

the rat race.
ants marching all around.
problems solved,
leaving hundreds in its wake.
unable to even cure my own ailments.
(physician, heal thyself.)
the ebb and flow,
the wax and wane,
in a hurry just to die at last.
being buried within a coffin
placed beside deceased loved ones
mourned by the crowd of painted smiles.
he was a good man
wasn't he?
so admirable;
so virtuous.
as the crowd disperses
into their own hurried frenzy.

the clock which mocks the living
continues ticking
despite every effort
to slow its eerie cadence.
when at last, it stops.
and all is quiet,
all is black,
all is null and void.
never enough hours within the day.
fleeting mortality,
slipping through my fingers
like sand through
the hourglass.