The Hours

Time.
Flowing like a river,
it gushes and spits,
it slows and steadies.

These, though,
these are THE hours.

Alone, me, myself and I,
Reasoning on the what ifs,
on the what if nots.

Thinking, hard, on the next move.

Guessing, no certainty in there,
what might be next to come,
if anything at all.

What to do?
What not to?
Where will i be in ten years' time,
if i chose this?
And what if i chose that?

It's way too easy to choose for the immediate.
It's the ripples through time
that scare me to no end.

No presumption of control,
And still (hence?) the fear.


Like throwing a rock down a mountain slope.
Irresponsible.
Still, what choice is ever left?

Blame me for my wakefulness.

L.