Where time too much has now gone
Days and weeks that are now months and years
lost to Mind's endless conception, but no
Pen has touched paper for some time,
The words that rushed round are silent
And the pictures of the mind disappear,
Instead filled with things and stuff
like appointments and schedules and
important things to do,
silly things and pointless activity
passing time passes, unproductive.
Only for the split second that spares
from the whirlwind of everything/nothing
comes regret and wistfulness
before another reminder of something
more important/not important at all,
Mind leads meaningless questions, no,
meaning to the tracks that are tread
and to the point if there is one to be had at all.
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