Beth Grant


Time moves slowly to us that wait
in feverish anticipation,
turning our minds into

Why does this change
occur with such deceptively
coniving effects
that I dream quietly
of death?

If time is our friend,
why does it not bend
and giveme a piece
of hidden tranquility?

Instead hope will fade,
with time in shade,
and anxiety becomes
my enemy withing.

Worry and fret anchor
my mind once again.
This cycle of contemplation
becomes my time, never end.

Poem Submitted: Tuesday, January 12, 2010

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