Poetry

Chill Days, 29 (334.)

The more I think about taking my time,
the more time I spend thinking.
Until I’m just thinking.
One would think the brain
gets better as it turns,
and maybe it does,
but I’m never sure about my so-called progress.
Always was something of a doubter,
maybe even some kind of downer
when people really get to talking.
When you dig deep enough
to escape the sun,
why feign surprise
when it gets dark?
I can shine a light in these tunnels.
The abyss is not as scary as it seems.
Self-improvement behooves every person,
as existence is here to give us
that limited gift
known as time.
It’s been said over and over again,
but one never knows how much time
they have.
I don’t know how much time I have.
But I still take my time.
As someone said once,
all good things in time.
So I ruminate.
I should really act, though.
To turn time thinking
into something exponential.
Growth is the hope.
I avert my eyes from the clock
and start moving.

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