There is a quiet in the air I can almost touch,
And time poised at my fingertips,
And the world seems an odd kind of still,
A waiting kind of still.
There is a quiet in the air I can almost touch,
And time poised at my fingertips,
And the world seems an odd kind of still,
A waiting kind of still.
I think I worry about time too much.
Living alongside the rhythmic and repetitious strides
Of the backdrop of humanity
Seems to fill my head with it.
With time.
The nonstop tick-tock is locked into my footsteps
Into the beats per minute of my heart
Blinking numbers or the hypnotic swirl
Of hands that spin too fast in the corner of my eye
But not at all when staring them in the face.
Maybe I worry about time too much because
I’m aware of being trapped in it
But I can’t see it to get out.