How strange it is to see
The Passers-By
With schedules scrawled
Across their minds
And clocks
Like ticking time bombs
Latched onto their wrists.

Overtaken in the static
Of their individual worlds
With all its never-ending
Numbers and plans,
Their heads are buried
In the sand
That falls from their
Hourglass skies.

So hurriedly they shuffle past,
Pulled by the pressing chains of
Expectations,
Straining to ignore
The hushed voice
That lives within them all
As it whispers its constant plea:
"Look up
And break free."