Passage of Hours

Time only seems important when you’ve got somewhere to go,
Or there’s someone in the future that you’re aching yet to know.
Alone, in this room, in the stretching evening gloom,
Time passes unmarked, minutes spilling to their doom,
Piling in their masses, unwept and unseen,
unfruitful harvests come and go, with no seconds left to glean.
In these moments without purpose, time ceases to exist.
For every hour the clock strikes, how many does it miss?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s