Wasted Time Poem by Peter Black

Counting the days which were thought,
To be something better, bringing a change
Simple as a close and kind face,
To see not with eyes; but the heart
Grows fibrous and rough,
While the mind begins to think of years,
Like skins to be be shed off onion peels;
In the exchange hope is caught:
in the turmoil of relief and loss.
Then when opportunity appears,
You doubt and wait on different feels
Of sloth and depression: brought
From fear of change, now that your life is paused.
Go on wasting days until,
Your clock falters and the gears stop.