Art Of Procrastination Poem by Issac Gonzales

The clock is ticking,
But I do not hear it.
A fan pushes the wind,
And I not feel it.
The lights overhead
Glisten
and shine
upon the board.
Apparent, and fading.
Looking past the whiteness
What may be
Another dimension
Whose gazing in
From the other side.
The further they look,
The deeper within
The empty whiteness.
The lights overhead
Waning,
Dying,
And I
Drifting,
Sighing,
Sleeping,
Stirring,
Awake.
Tick.
The clock is ticking.