Ryan's Book of Verses

The hours pass so slowly now,
The seconds inching by,
Like earthworms with a bone to pick,
Or slugs with fish to fry.

If only moments took less time,
The pace would pick up fast.
We'd call the days "the hours," and
The weeks would slither past.

It's time we spent less time on this,
And much more time on that.
For this is all 'twill ever be,
And I guess that is that.

Only on Thursday, or soon thereafter,
When seconds are sluggish, like winter snakes.

Orchard-apples, full and reddish-brown,
Burnished, brown, some soft, some cold, some wet.
Fallen ripe but not too far, they fear
Growing older, softer, browner yet.

"Is it tomorrow, or the end of time?"

Yup.
Yup. Yup.
Yup. Yup. Yup. Yup. Yup.

YUP, yup, yup, yup, yup, yup, yup, yup, yup, yup.

I think...

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