Striking the iron while hot, red hot,
Molds it into marvels, from the taut,
Grabbing the days by their horns,
Seizing every moment that adorns.
Thus are born the tales of success,
With contentment, that one can caress.
My days, however, whiz past by me,
Of scattered moments, I hold the debris,
Stealthily, the time seems to slip,
Days into months and years, skip.
While I don’t seek a complete pause.
A tiny slowdown wouldn’t hurt my cause.