They want to mess with time.
They want to take it and wrap it
around some idea or other.

They want us to be more productive
or less—no one knows.

They want the mornings brighter—
or is it darker? It depends on who you ask.

They want the nights to hang in the wings
letting the day make a later exit from the stage.

They want to move things over there,
over here or under that or over this.

They want it earlier and later
and better and better.

They will never be happy because, like a pubescent
neurotic, nothing is ever pretty enough.

They fidget, they hem and haw and grit their teeth
in the effort to move the rock up that hill where the
view is so much better.

They exhaust themselves because they don’t know better—
the poor things.

They will prostrate themselves before the god of
never being happy with what is.

They will extinguish themselves, sadly, predictably—
before their time is up.