Yet earth still spins ...

Minutes of poetic nonsense, minute prose, making rhymes from words that mean little.
Triptychs of time, temporal moments, minutes minute as they pass.
Microseconds collect, becoming momentary delay. Adding up, collecting, accumulates each day.
As each breath passes, each heart beat rendered, another day drifts on our journey to our end.
Once begun, we hurtle towards a definite path, with only a moment to make an impression on our world.
Words lost into an ether as each year becomes more and so even more.
Decades, accumulate, maybe a century passed.

Yet earth still spins, every day.


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