With a flourish of the hand
And the tick of a clock
She looked nervously down at her wristwatch
She's Late! She's Late!

How can time always run so fast?
Time and Time again it makes her fearful
As if Life was never meant to Last
They're Late! They're Late!

Why invent such a stressful contraption?
As the ever turning hands of a clock
The picture of Life might as well have the caption
"We're all Late! We're all Late!"
All hope is Lost.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem