Notes About The Poem
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THE ROOM WE'RE STANDING IN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The clock hands move,
but do they really?
They carve circles in the air,
pretending progress.
We name hours,
divide them like cake slices,
yet hunger remains.
The river doesn’t rush;
it only looks that way
when you stand on the bank.
Dive in, and it holds you
like a lazy afternoon.
Mountains shrug off epochs.
Stones forget their own weight.
Even the sun, that punctual tyrant,
is just a slow blink
in Something’s endless eye.
We measure, we mourn,
we clutch at seconds
as if they could be kept~
but time isn’t a thief.
It’s the room we’re all standing in,
barefoot,
unaware the floor is falling.
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