It Does Not Exist

Yet we run on hands,

Hands that reach out and hit those cursed numbers.

It dictates when we do things, but can we stop it?

 

Ever since we came into this world,

Even before we could even think,

It has been there.

Mocking, Pressuring,

Pressuring us as if we were water,

Water that flows loosely, till pressured.

 

Our lives run like clockwork.

There is quarters, middle, and dot.

We must do things chronologically.

But should you go at the pace of hands, is up to you.

 

And if you do conform,

It is because of the form it takes.

Under it, we can feel that hands- no, eyes

Eyes of this abstract idea watching from behind our backs

As if it were a teacher,

Facilitating our lives,

In which we are taking this never-ending test of life.

 

The issue is, it does not know we cannot live forever.

Our time here is pounded on a newly made hourglass.

Seconds pass, and we are getting closer to the grave.

Every sand falling reminds us that we are mortal.

 

But there is hope,

Hope that people carry as they breeze through life.

Not worrying about their sand falling

Not worrying about their foot getting deeper into the grave.

 

They care about things worthwhile.

Nothing can slow them down.

They love, care, and hold things dearest to them.

And that is timeless,

Timeless to the point where they are beyond us,

Beyond the whole universe

Because they do not let their lives run by a tick.