An infinitesimal interlude again Elapses without warning Vanishing into the thin air

Rearing me towards that Wormhole of momentary damnation Where I fail to do a job of deadline Only owing to another alluring avocation

Days lead to hours Hours lead to minutes

Before that minutes shrink themselves into The seconds of resonated beating

Magical things happen Roads are built, so are houses Electricity gets in Televisions run All in a moment

The job is started With an innocent hope of prospective accomplishment On time. Perhaps a childish hope

Pursued with relentless vigour It tends to be done Pretending to be completed

And all you have during submission Is a badly cooked porridge Brimming with dissatisfaction, resignation And pure hidden wildness Also an attractive garnishing with An old adage, time and tide wait for none