Time
such a fleeting thing,
slipping through fingers,
gone in a moment.
Or it tickles, slowly,
minutes dragging like hours,
a never-ending wait.

Time
how I wish for it to fly,
or still,
depending on the mood,
the moment,
it’s ever changing,
never the same.

Time
always stubborn.
Today, I willed it to fly,
but instead, it stilled—
made me aware of my rush within.
Because time is wise,
and always its own.