By Proxy

POETRY | HOPE

Seven hours sitting and counting minutes

As a child might count out baseball cards

Knowing each day I live, each moment I endure

I am no more secure in what I know to be true

I know it’s been said, often by writers or poets long dead

that wisdom builds upon itself like bricks

Like sands in an hourglass, slowly dropping down

But even on a day like this as seven hours pass

It’s a lesson I don’t want to learn.

I can shake my fists at heaven in a rage

Why so little time to burn?

Why so fickle a lesson taught?

Why must I obey this ticking cage?

How easy it is to curse the clock,

As though mocking me in regularity

How easy to give in to lethargy

As the lights give up the stage,

I am left only with words.

Such a poor defence before a judge long deaf

And each breath leaves us only closer to the end

Breathe, I tell myself, breathe deeply and with feeling

Fill those lungs with the wind of dreams

Hold each moment of these impenetrable seven hours,

As though I pulled the hands of a clock free

And no longer live by proxy

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