Time drips like water through cupped hands,

each second a small death

we cannot hold.

The clock face stares with hollow eyes,

counting down what we pretend

is infinite—

this borrowed breath,

this temporary warmth

beneath our skin.

In hospital corridors,

fluorescent lights hum lullabies

for the sleepless,

while somewhere a heart

forgets its rhythm,

stops mid-beat

like a song

cut short.

We are all walking

toward the same door,

carrying our small griefs

like stones in our pockets,

heavy with the knowledge

that morning

may not come

for everyone.

The earth keeps turning,

indifferent to our names,

our dreams scattered

like autumn leaves—

beautiful in their falling,

brief in their glory