having made all the days feel all one and the same

having only myself and none others to blame

needing rest from all these things coming forth at me

wrapping something up but not the gifts of yuletide

melting away the clocks like in those weird craftworks

running away with time but with nowhere to hide

needing time not only to stop but to run back

hoping we can get away with it all someday

finding days shorter and not because of winter

seeing the morning as birth and the night as death

working so hard at this with yet no end in sight

making these lines hark back to younger days of yore

handling the darker times by not throwing away time

setting out each day to make each deed with meaning

spending long days without work yet still not angry

having pulled back into a dark hollow somewhere