Hi again,
I see myself here,
writing, thinking—
just thinking.
I imagine a poetry book,
and I want to call it “The Little Things That Move the Heart.”
But here it comes again,
the voice, laughing—
an image pointing at me, laughing.
I say, yes, I have no time.
Time—
it moves fast,
tiny legs chasing all of us,
pushing us toward a peak.
Will we keep running
and leap into the abyss,
or pause on the edge, frozen—
no turning back,
while time, relentless,
comes for us anyway?
Jan 13
Jan 13, 2026 at 12:48 AM UTC
Hi again,
I see myself here,
writing, thinking—
just thinking.
I imagine a poetry book,
and I want to call it “The Little Things That Move the Heart.”
But here it comes again,
the voice, laughing—
an image pointing at me, laughing.
I say, yes, I have no time.
Time—
it moves fast,
tiny legs chasing all of us,
pushing us toward a peak.
Will we keep running
and leap into the abyss,
or pause on the edge, frozen—
no turning back,
while time, relentless,
comes for us anyway?
This poem explores the passage of time, the choices we face, and the small, fleeting moments that shape our experience. It reflects on the tension between rushing forward and pausing to notice what truly matters. Should I write the book?
