A battle with time

The big hand of the clock reaches 12

and the little one 9.

The sunbeams flutter across my room

and on the clay pot spewing verdant vines.

I lay there still

savoring the quiet,

the blackbird's trill,

serene idle streets

and trees swaying on distant hills

At that very moment

I come to realize

that I have never truly lived

this thing called life.

I've been blind

my chest heaves,

its aches and burns,

my minutes, fleet.

Should have taken a moment

an hour, a day

should have known my efforts were futile

When I strived to outrun age.

Now my life's a colorless,

tattered, empty page,

still longing to be written on

but my quill is about to break;

Still dreaming to taste the memories

I never got to make

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a/n: sorry for not posting for so long. been busy with schoolwork. How r u?

do you like this poem? comment how I can improve it. :)

*virtual hug*

artwork: The Death of Albine by John Maller Collier