Though time is fleeting,
While your little heart is beating:
Stop.
Relax awhile.
For as the hands of time churn,
Forsaken unintended fires burn,
Because man’s patience was riled.
Poor little Billy Bob was late,
He dropped his pen and awoke his old grandmother,
Who still lie in bed like a slate.
She asked for some small crackers and a towering glass of milk.
Little Billy Bob raced to the kitchen,
Sliding to her room and the milk he spilt.
On his way,
After cleaning the mess.
He ran fast and hard,
Towards the school with his heart beating strongly in his chest.
As he rounded circle street,
An unconcerned cabbies car, barely missed his nose.
The saying goes,
Haste makes waste,
Especially when you often end up on your face.
Isn’t it strange,
How everything accident or planned,
Seems to fit perfectly in place?
Every failure ends in glory,
At some point.
Every tragedy brings a blessing,
One man’s heartbreak,
Can quickly follow another’s fortune,
Seconds later.
If you ever wonder,
Why the earth is rotating.
Why you are sunken in doom,
Only wanting to sleep in your tomb.
Stop,
Relax awhile.
Your life, may be at stake.