Once, time was a river,
it flowed, it hummed, it forgave.
Now it pants like a tired animal
chained to the wrists of men.
The clocks on the wall inhale seconds,
exhale deadlines.
They cough out minutes that taste of metal,
their lungs wheezing in digital blue.
We have taught time to sprint,
to choke on caffeine and noise.
Our calendars bleed into one another
like watercolors left in the rain.
Even dawn seems impatient now,
the sun rises like a commuter train,
carrying the same light
to faces that forgot to look up.
When clocks learned to breathe,
we forgot how to pause.
Our hearts tick, our screens pulse
and somewhere,
a forest grows without hurry.
December, 2025
