The Meaning in Mirrors

Brittle boredom bourne in my bones
Soul aches from lack of breaks
Wish to wait in willful wanderlust

But time keeps on ticking
Sand keeps on trickling
Through the hourglass
As short seconds pass

O fickle Fortune,
O capricious Chance,
what an erratic tune
to which she makes us dance.

You cannot full escape her,
yet may run far or draw close.
If Luck’s absence you prefer,
it’s pure labor you’ve chose

Time is a Murderer,
a cutthroat assassin
that ruthlessly slits the throats
of the people
and places
and things
you love.

It is an endless parade
 of marching seconds,
a patient and silent
Teacher