A Peculiar Thing

It's a poem.

Time is a peculiar thing. When we
are young, it comes as cheaply as air.

We have an infinite supply in which
to make a case for our value before
a jury of millions. Best yet, we require
but a single “yea” vote, just one f*****g
thumbs up to avoid that dreaded sentence,
life … solitary … no chance of parole.

Then, somehow, when we aren’t watching,
that time becomes finite. Now, no jurors
will meet our gaze. Heads down, they file
past us. In this court each renders their
verdict individually, one by one, the same
verdict, again and again and again.

It begins to echo in some reservoir deep
inside of us that has only recently been
drained. The place where we kept hope.

And then time … and you … expire.

Reviews

[Einstein Noodle]

Creepy!!! it has been way too long since you have posted ...so happy to find this :)
oh my goodness! time is of essence ... time is ticking .. time has run out :) .. your poem captures the anxiety of puberty .. the drone of in the middle and the acquiescence of ..well ..my age :} ... really happy to read your post ..don't be such a stranger
E.