Time

My nights end with the chirping of morning birds 

And my mornings begin with the wall clock chiming twelve.

It’s funny how one day bleeds into the next,

With a heavy sigh, I keep obeying the new flexible rule of time.

It’s strange how happiness seems almost tangible, 

yet unachievable during these times. 

Adulting and lockdown is an adultered mixture of a potent poison,

That burns your throat but never kills you. 

So you remain suspended in a realm of uncertainty induced by adulthood

Giving in to the futile pursuit of happiness.

Gulping for a breath of the now clean air,

As your throat burns again and again.