The clock keeps running
pacing itself with
a perfect, timeless
beat,
playing along with
numbers
and people,
rushing them, worrying them, killing them,
at his own pace
swiftly,
Like tiny puppets on a string,
time-traveling.
Not the one to say
he just shows numbers,
which he himself doesn’t care about,
he’s just a tireless
runner
running around on tracks
no aim, no one to blame,
completely monotonous.
Why is everything important in life, lifeless?
Life in a blog 