There’s a soft ticking that reverberates through the mind.
It whispers “you’re late”, for what event I can’t quite place but I find it lies a lot.
Suddenly appears to disrupt the plot, corrupt a thought and then disappear.
Ticks. Picks aimed at the appreciation of now.
Shrouds that cover quiet importance with loud imperatives.
Proud incentives to despair temporal placement.
We are never as young as we used to be.
We’ve all lost time to pointless misery.
Time passively continues but we all actively endure.
I can’t cure the ticks but I promise applied truth helps because they lie, a lot.