We, the settlers, trekking behind
the covered wagons of time, rattle the hours
in pockets of loose moments,
that can hold only so much in a day. We want more
for next week, next year, always in search
of the wild land of permanence.
Wheels rock, moods swing on the bandwagons
to success. Hands accelerate
to build faster, sooner, just in time
at the speed of the ticking clock.
Years, stubborn as mules, stand firm
against time-wasters. None can afford losing days.
Dawn chases the light down to dusk.
We lie with the horses
who race the sun but sink to their knees
in the darkness.
At night, moribund in our cardboard homes,
we guess another existence, where we move
to a different light, sense contrary feelings,
thrive on unheard language.