Time goes by.
The rate at which it goes is beginning to scare.
STOP. PLEASE.
I can't smell the flowers with everything whizzing.
It's the race of hurdles that never ends.
Miles and miles of running and jumping
Tripping and struggling to get up
To run some more.
Inside is a person longing to be idle.
To be quiet.
No ringing in the ears.
No car to climb into
on the way to another destination.
Aching to sit.
To watch TV.
To knit.
Something other than garter stitch.
How do people find spare time for TV?
Or books?
The queue grows taller
the shelves fill up with literature.
Unread
but eagerly anticipated.
Maybe tomorrow.
Maybe next week.
Maybe when?
???
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