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Inbalanced Equations

Feet planted on ground for years to come,
I wish for the hours to run slow
And the clocks now to be sticky;
As they were in my youth-
Each day was far longer,
I had much less to do.
Not long ago I was
Riding out minutes, cursing the man
Who was growing quite old;
Was quite slow in the hands-
I demanded new pace.
Signatures for change
Exiled the man; and in his place
Stands tyrants, a new marching beat:
Drill sergeants announcing there’s no time
For sleep, whipping with the darkness
Of eyes and of spirit-
After all, there are still twenty-four
Rounds to get ahead; yet I see
People die as deadlines fall through…
Each day is far shorter
I have much more to do.




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