Weighty imperfections bend my will.
Lower it to unworthy aims.
What’s the point of wanting it still,
when no pull on you it claims?
One by one desires shrink to duty
and cravings to responsibility cave.
Why cling to them tightly,
when I don’t deserve them anyway?
Hurriedly days rush to slow ends.
Uncertain if time stretches or stops.
How can I tell when moments blend,
if I use the sameness as a prop?