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?
Passage of Hours
