Hello everyone! I have not posted in so long, and I apologize for that. Here's a composition I just wrote about the irony of the passage of time. It's in free-verse form, so it looks like prose at first glance, but it is poetry-I promise.
Slow decaying hours of tension trickle like a single sand grain falling from an hourglass. Patience itself cannot prevail against an inevitable pending doom, looming in the near yet never approaching future. Time sticks you between the aggravating state of not knowing and the horrible event of realization, and abandons you there until your thoughts fester inside your head and drive you near to madness. Your body grows accustomed to the dragging days, leaving you almost lifeless, so that when doomsday finally arrives, despite your waiting, you're not prepared. It comes as a surprise, a shock.
Suddenly life is a whir. You now beg time to stop, but for some ironic cause it's tired of its lazy meandering and longs to run- to sprint. You're choking in the dust, exasperated in wonderment about how you'll ever keep up. Dry and uncomfortable quiet has become momentous chaos. In a flash, years have passed since that fateful day, and once in a while you look back, and still you're not used to how your life has changed. You never will be, because Time plays an awful trick.
No comments:
Post a Comment