The Dying Seconds

Not gone at all but merely changed in form.

I look back, or down, from far away.

Indulge me; hear my faint, fading whisper.

I will tell you of the dying seconds.

The dying seconds come uninvited.

That final packet of time slips in unseen.

You may be shouting, shopping, or at sea.

You may have plans. You may just sit and dream.

And seconds before the dying seconds?

A life spins on, the rush, the buzz, the flood

Of being, feeling, thinking, knowing. Heat.

Demand the heat of it and make it burn.

I hear your final fading whisper now.

Your call is clear. I will not falter.

My life will spin, rush, buzz and burn – and I’ll

Not think at all of the dying seconds.