Sometimes the door is a jar

and other times the windows are breezy,

but over all, time and time again,

the clock upon the wall,

is just a memory of by gone days.

–

Sometimes a day is a minute,

other times it seems forever,

each moment adding to the age,

winding down the moments,

writings upon a musky page.

–

Perhaps at some point

I will climb the highest peek,

and look above the faces

all ticking for their cliques,

all pacing for their races.

–

Maybe, just maybe,

I can seek that endless out,

and find my way back home,

where trails lead to some places,

and footprints leave no traces.

–

–