On The Clock

The world is a stopwatch
constantly, ticking, ticking,
every life having a deadline,
each creation carefully crafted
with a timepiece of aging.

You can’t stroll any avenue,
linger somewhere just to taste the wind
that the sounds of alarm clocks
won’t be heard in the head.

Born aware it seems
some schedule is foreordained,
nothing exists without an expiration date.

Walking the ramparts of reality
confronted by an added layer
in the second’s charted lines
stripped of any immortal illusions
by funerals and the constant changes.

Even existence is precarious,
learning how falling asteroids might doom the planet
or some prophetic visions
have swore the future will bring some pain.

So we spend the moments
silencing all the sirens,
quietly muffling their dreaded resound
grabbing hold of the fleeting joy
wherever it can be found,
because as long as history
still has hour hands
it is far better to savor its movement
than give up on any plans.