time,
with
precious minutes,
seconds
trickling
through our hands
like sand
in the hourglass.
we hit the floor running,
hardly
catching our
breath
for busses and trains,
we need
to get back to it.
there is no time
to waste,
work is of the essence
we run and run,
while
the roses die behind
us, leaving
broken stems in our wake.
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