You say, "a year or two ago,"
but I know it has been much longer.
Though you may not realize such, my dear,
something happened during that span
that has caused our lives to halt completely.
We used to run around frivolously
with Time moseying about in his bathrobe.
We would pretend, play make-believe,
play dress-up and be adults one day,
adventurers the next, athletes and artists--
constantly morphing and developing our lives
without the littlest concern of the moment.
That day our feet caught to the floor
and we were permanently stuck in our costumes--
students, lovers, a poet, a thinker--
and Time decided to put his tie on.
Our feet were snagged from that point on,
the inertia of the moment taking our breath,
and the unexpected snapping at our heels
like a mouse caught red-handed in a trap.
Do you think in his last few dying moments
during the descent of his executioner,
the mouse is surrounded by the smell of his cheese?
I like to think so--but deep down, I know
that the snap of his neck, the fright in his eyes,
the realization he was only an inch from his prize,
dominates his every thought and sense.