Hours

by Rani Turton



In spite of or rather because of A boundless imagination bequeathed by my forebears Leaping and skimming over life's incidents and accidents Waiting and patience are not only virtues In spite of or rather because of a certain sentience That begins but doesn't complete the sentence Phrases are like life; sometimes broken At times unfinished and often unspoken And these hours dribbling and dragging on, forever on From the very beginning, the moment one is born. When the end comes, alone in a foreign land The hours will stop and nobody needs to understand.

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