When I think the words inside my head,
"Hurry up, my dear, hurry up,"
I land in a space between longing and chilliness,
as if I will not be able to stand my own criticism.
The fire will turn to coals, cooling at the
right time and the pudding eventually
becomes room temperature.
Feeling warm is not an option, that I spread
myself in many directions, hoping something shall appear
before my strained eyes.
Where shall I end up on a night like this?
"I have not captured my time well," I say to myself.
Searching seems useless, and I want an answer in return
but nothing comes my way.
Patience can be digested and removed.
All the same, its replacement multiplies again.
That man has not done his proper job,
has left others unaware.
The clock has struck midnight and what follows?
When I hear the voices around me,
a collection of symbols, and emotions,
massive in weight, failing in meaning, sounds
falling down with a thud.